5gfl»SU 

t?LS3 


HUMAN  TRAITS 

AND  THEIR 

SOCIAL  SIGNIFICANCE 

BY 
IRWIN  EDMAN,  Pn.D. 

INSTRUCTOR  IN  PHILOSOPHY,  COLUMBIA  UNIVERSITY 


BOSTON      NEW  YORK      CHICAGO      BAN  FRANCISCO 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
(Cbc  Ribntfbe  ptttf  CambnOge 


COPYRIGHT,  1920,  BY  IRWIN  EDMAN 
Copyright,  1919,  by  Columbia  University 

ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
PRINTED  IN  THE  U  .  8  .  A 


BM 

•TATW  TBACHEW*  COt-L«« 
•AMTA  »AW»ARA    CALIFORNIA 

FOREWORD   _ JU 

^,  ,  I    V  «•••*-•  ••'  "  '  '  '    " 

THIS  book  was  written,  originally  and  primarily,  for  use  in 
a  course  entitled  "Introduction  to  Contemporary  Civiliza- 
tion," required  of  all  Freshmen  in  Columbia  College.  It  is 
an  attempt  to  give  a  bird's-eye  view  of  the  processes  of  human 
nature,  from  man's  simple  inborn  impulses  and  needs  to  the 
most  complete  fulfillment  of  these  in  the  deliberate  activi- 
ties of  religion,  art,  science,  and  morals.  It  is  hoped  that  the 
book  may  give  to  the  student  and  general  reader  a  knowledge 
of  the  fundamentals  of  human  nature  and  a  sense  of  the  pos- 
sibilities and  limits  these  give  to  human  enterprise. 

Part  I  consists  of  an  analysis  of  the  types  of  behavior,  a 
survey  of  individual  traits  and  their  significance  in  social 
life,  a  brief  consideration  of  the  nature  and  development  of 
the  self,  individual  differences,  language  and  communication, 
racial  and  cultural  continuity.  Those  fruits  of  psychological 
inquiry  have  been  stressed  which  bear  most  strikingly  on  the 
relations  of  men  in  our  present-day  social  and  economic  or- 
ganization. In  consequence,  there  has  been  a  deliberate  ex- 
clusion of  purely  technical  or  controversial  material,  however 
interesting.  The  psychological  analysis  is  in  general  based 
upon  the  results  of  the  objective  inquiries  into  human  behav- 
ior which  have  been  so  fruitfully  conducted  in  the  last  twenty 
five  years  by  Thorndike  and  Woodworth.  To  the  work  of 
the  first-mentioned,  the  author  is  particularly  indebted. 

Part  II  is  a  brief  analysis,  chiefly  psychological  in  character, 
of  the  four  great  activities  of  the  human  mind  and  imagination 
—  religion,  art,  science,  and  morals.  These  are  discussed  as 
normal  though  complex  activities  developed,  through  the 
process  of  reflection,  in  the  fulfillment  of  man's  inborn  im- 
pulses and  needs.  Thus  descriptively  to  treat  these  spiritual 
enterprises  implies  on  the  part  of  the  author  a  naturalistic 
viewpoint  whose  main  outlines  have  been  fixed  for  this  gen- 
eration by  James,  Santayana,  and  Dewey.  To  the  last- 
named  the  writer  wishes  to  express  the  very  special  obligation 
that  a  pupil  owes  to  a  great  teacher. 


iv  FOREWORD 

The  book  as  a  whole,  so  far  as  can  be  judged  from  the  e*r 
perience  the  author  and  others  have  had  in  using  it  during 
the  past  year  as  a  text  at  Columbia,  should  fit  well  into  any 
general  course  hi  social  psychology.  It  has  been  increasingly 
realized  that  the  student's  understanding  of  contemporary 
problems  of  government  and  industry  is  immensely  clarified 
by  a  knowledge  of  the  human  factors  which  they  involve. 
This  volume  supplies  a  brief  account  of  the  essential  facts  of 
human  behavior  with  especial  emphasis  on  their  social  con- 
sequences. Part  I  may  be  independently  used,  as  it  has  been 
with  success,  in  a  general  course  in  social  psychology.  Part  II, 
the  "Career  of  Reason,"  presents  material  which  many  in- 
structors find  it  highly  desirable  to  use  in  introductory  phi- 
losophy courses,  but  for  which  no  elementary  texts  are  avail- 
able. The  usual  textbooks  deal  with  the  more  metaphysical 
problems  to  the  exclusion  of  religion,  art,  morals,  and  science, 
humanly  the  most  interesting  and  significant  of  philosophi- 
cal problems.  Where,  as  in  many  colleges,  the  introductory 
philosophy  course  is  preceded  by  a  course  in  psychology,  the 
arrangement  of  the  volume  should  prove  particularly  well 
suited. 

The  illustrative  material  has  been  drawn,  possibly  to  an 
unusual  extent,  from  literature.  The  latter  seems  to  give  the 
student  in  the  vivid  reality  of  specific  situations  facts  which 
the  psychologist  is  condemned,  from  the  necessities  of  scien- 
tific method,  to  discuss  in  the  abstract. 

The  book  follows  more  or  less  closely  that  part  of  the  syl- 
labus for  the  course  in  Contemporary  Civilization,  which  is 
called  "The  World  of  Human  Nature,"  which  section  of  the 
outline  was  chiefly  the  joint  product  of  collaboration  by  Pro- 
fessor John  J.  Coss  and  the  author.  To  the  former  the  author 
wishes  to  express  his  large  indebtedness.  Also  to  Miss  Edith 
G.  Taber,  for  her  careful  and  valuable  editing  of  the  manu- 
script in  preparation  for  the  printer,  he  desires  to  convey  his 
deep  appreciation. 

I.  B. 

Columbia  University,  June  1920. 


CONTENTS 

INTRODUCTION 
HUMAN  TRAITS  AND  CIVILIZATION       .      . 


PART  I -SOCIAL  PSYCHOLOGY 

CHAPTER  I 
TYPES  OF  HUMAN  BEHAVIOR 


The  human  animal  —  The  number  and  variety  of  man's  in- 
stincts —  Learning  in  Eni'mala  and  men  —  The  prolonged 
period  of  infancy  —  Consciousness  of  self  and  reaction  to 
ideas  —  Human  beings  alone  possess  language  —  Man  the 
only  maker  and  user  of  tools. 

CHAPTER  II 

TYPES  OP  HUMAN  BEHAVIOR  AND  THEIR  SOCIAL  SIGNIFICANCE 
—  INSTINCT,  HABIT,  AND  EMOTION  ,  .  .  .  .  .18 
Instinctive  behavior  —  The  necessity  for  the  control  of  in* 
stinct  —  Habitual  behavior  —  The  mechanism  of  habit  — 
The  acquisition  of  new  modes  of  response  —  Trial  and  error 
and  deliberate  learning  —  Some  conditions  of  habit-forma- 
tion —  Drill  versus  attentive  repetition  in  learning  —  Learn- 
ing affected  by  age,  fatigue,  and  health  —  Habit  as  a  time- 
saver  —  Habit  as  a  stabilizer  of  action  —  Disserviceable  habits 
in  the  individual  —  Social  inertia  —  The  importance  of  the 
learning  habit  —  The  specificity  of  habits  —  The  conscious 
transference  of  habits  —  Emotion. 

CHAPTER  III 
REFLECTION 47 

Instinct  and  habit  versus  reflection  —  The  origin  and  nature  of 
reflection  —  Illustration  of  the  reflective  process  —  Reflection 
as  the  modifier  of  instinct  —  Reflective  behavior  modifies 
habit  —  The  limits  of  reflection  as  a  modifier  of  instinct  and 
habit  —  How  instincts  and  habits  impair  the  processes  of 
reflection  —  The  value  of  reflection  for  life  —  The  social  im- 
portance of  reflective  behavior  —  Reflection  removed  from 


vi  CONTENTS 

immediate  application:  science  —  The  practical  aspect  of 
science  —  The  creation  of  beautiful  objects  and  the  expres- 
sion of  ideas  and  feelings  in  beautiful  form. 

CHAPTER  IV 

THE  BASIC  HUMAN  ACTIVITIES 67 

Food,  shelter,  and  sex  —  Physical  activity  —  Mental  activity 

—  Quiescence:  fatigue  —  Nervous  and  mental  fatigue. 

CHAPTER  V 

THE  SOCIAL  NATURE  OF  MAN 81 

Man  as  a  social  being  —  Gregariousness  —  Gregariousness  im- 
portant for  social  solidarity  —  Gregariousness  may  hinder  the 
solidarity  of  large  groups  —  Gregariousness  in  belief  —  Gre- 
gariousness in  habits  of  action  —  The  effect  of  gregariousness 
on  innovation  —  Sympathy  (a  specialization  of  gregarious- 
ness) —  Praise  and  blame  —  Praise  and  blame  modify  habit 

—  Desire  for  praise  may  lead  to  the  profession  rather  than 
the  practice  of  virtue  —  The  social  effectiveness  of  praise  and 
blame  —  Social  estimates  and  standards  of  conduct  —  Im- 
portance of  relating  praise  and  blame  to  socially  important 
conduct  —  Education  as  the  agency  of  social  control  —  So- 
cial activity  and  the  social  motive. 

CHAPTER  VI 

CRUCIAL  TRAITS  IN  SOCIAL  LIFE 110 

The  interpenetration  of  human  traits  —  The  fighting  instinct 

—  Pugnacity  a  menace  when  uncontrolled  —  Pugnacity  as  a 
beneficent  social  force  —  The  "submissive  instinct"  —  Men 
display  qualities  of  leadership  —  Man  pities  and  protects  weak 
and  suffering  things  —  Fear  —  Love  and  hate  —  Love  —  Hate. 

CHAPTER  VII 

THE  DEMAND  FOR  PRIVACY  AND  INDIVIDUALITY    .  138 

Privacy  and  solitude  —  Satisfaction  in  personal  possession:  the 
acquisitive  instinct  —  Individuality  in  opinion  and  belief  — 
The  social  importance  of  individuality  in  opinion. 

CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  "SELF"   .      ,>.«,..      .  148 
Origin  and  development  of  a  sense  of  personal  selfhood  —  The 
social  self  —  Character  and  will  —  The  enhancement  of  the 
self  —  Egoism  versus  altruism  —  Self-satisfaction  and  dissatis- 
faction —  The  contrast  between  the  self  and  others  —  Types 


CONTENTS  vii 

of  self  —  Self-display  or  boldness  —  Self-sufficient  modesty  — 
The  positive  and  flexible  self  —  Dogmatism  and  self-asser- 
tion —  Enthusiasm  —  The  negative  self  —  Eccentrics  —  The 
active  and  the  contemplative  —  Emotions  aroused  in  the 
maintenance  of  the  self  —  The  individuality  of  groups. 

CHAPTEB  IX 

INDIVIDUAL  DIFFERENCES      .  186 

The  meaning  of  individual  differences  —  Causes  of  individual 
differences  —  The  influence  of  sex  —  The  influence  of  race  — 
The  influence  of  immediate  ancestry  or  family  —  The  influ- 
ence of  the  environment  —  Individual  differences  —  Democ- 
racy and  education. 

CHAPTER  X 

LANGUAGE  AND  COMMUNICATION 214 

Language  as  a  social  habit  —  Language  and  mental  life  —  The 
instability  of  language  —  Changes  in  meaning  —  Uniformities 
in  language  —  Standardization  of  language  —  Counter-tend- 
encies toward  differentiation  —  Language  as  emotional  and 
logical  —  Language  and  logic. 

CHAPTER  XI 

RACIAL  AND  CULTURAL  CONTINUITY 243 

Restriction  of  population  —  Cultural  continuity  —  Uncritical 
veneration  of  the  past  —  Romantic  idealization  of  the  past  — 
Change  synonymous  with  evil  —  "Order"  versus  change  — 
Personal  or  class  opposition  to  change  —  Uncritical  disparage- 
ment —  Critical  examination  of  the  past  —  Limitations  of  the 
past  —  Education  as  the  transmitter  of  the  past. 


PART  II -THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 
INTRODUCTION 275 

CHAPTER  XII 

RELIGION  AND  THE  RELIGIOUS  EXPERIENCE 279 

The  religious  experience  —  "  The  reality  of  the  unseen  "  —  Ex- 
periences which  frequently  find  religious  expression  —  Need  and 
impotence  —  Fear  and  awe  —  Regret,  remorse:  repentance 
and  penance  —  Joy  and  enthusiasm :  festivals  and  thanksgiv- 
ings —  Theology  —  The  description  of  the  divine  —  The  divine 
as  the  hum»vn  ideal  —  The  religious  experience,  theology  and 
science  —  Mechanistic  science  and  theology  —  Religion  and 


viii  CONTENTS 

science  —  The  church  as  a  social  institution  —  The  social  con- 
sequences of  institutionalized  religion  —  Intolerance  and  in- 
quisition —  Quietism  and  consolation:  other-worldliness. 

CHAPTER  XIII 

ABT  AND  THE  ESTHETIC  EXPERIENCE 331 

Art  versus  nature  —  The  emergence  of  the  fine  arts  —  The  aes- 
thetic experience  —  Appreciation  versus  action  —  Sense  satis- 
faction —  Form  —  Expression  —  Art  as  vicarious  experience 

—  Art  and  aesthetic  experience  in  the  social  order  —  Art  as  an 
industry  —  Art  and  morals. 

CHAPTER  XTV 

SCIENCE  AND  SCIENTIFIC  METHOD 368 

What  science  is  —  Science  as  explanation  —  Science  and  a 
world  view  —  The  aesthetic  value  of  science  —  The  danger  of 
"pure  science"  —  Practical  or  applied  science  —  Analysis  of 
scientific  procedure  —  Science  and  common  sense  —  Curios- 
ity and  scientific  inquiry  —  Thinking  begins  with  a  prob- 
lem —  The  quality  of  thinking:  suggestion  —  Classification  — 
Experimental  variation  of  conditions  —  Generalizations,  their 
elaboration  and  testing  —  The  quantitative  basis  of  scientific 
procedure  —  Statistics  and  probability  —  Science  as  an  instru- 
ment of  human  progress. 

CHAPTER  XV 

MORALS  AND  MORAL  VALUATION 411 

The  pre-conditions  of  morality:  instinct,  impulse,  and  desire  — 
The  conflict  of  interests  between  men  and  groups  —  The  levels 
of  moral  action:  custom;  the  establishment  of  "folkways"  — 
Morality  as  conformity  to  the  established  —  The  values  of 
customary  morality  —  The  defects  of  customary  morality  — 
Custom  and  progress  —  Origin  and  nature  of  reflective  moral- 
ity —  Reflective  reconstruction  of  moral  standards  —  The 
values  of  reflective  morality  —  Reflection  transforms  customs 
into  principles  —  Reflective  action  genuinely  moral  —  Reflec- 
tion sets  up  ideal  standards  —  The  defects  of  reflective  morality 

—  The  inadequacy  of  theory  in  moral  life  —  The  danger  of  in- 
tellectualism  in  morals  —  Types  of  moral  theory  —  Absolutism 

—  Relativistic   or  teleological  morality  —  Utilitarianism  — 
Moral  knowledge  —  Intuitionalism  —  Empiricism  —  Ethics 
and  life  —  Moralitv  and  human  nature  —  Morals,  law,  and 
education. 

INDEX    .      .     „    \»    ••.-.... 461 


INTRODUCTION 

Human  traits  and  civilization.  Throughout  the  long  en- 
terprise of  civilization  in  which  mankind  have  more  or  less 
consciously  changed  the  world  they  found  into  one  more  in 
conformity  with  their  desires,  two  factors  have  remained 
constant:  (1)  the  physical  order  of  the  universe,  which  we 
commonly  call  Nature,  and  (2)  the  native  biological  equip- 
ment of  man,  commonly  known  as  human  nature.  Both  of 
these,  we  are  almost  unanimously  assured  by  modern  science, 
have  remained  essentially  the  same  from  the  dawn  of  history 
to  the  present.  They  are  the  raw  material  out  of  which  is 
built  up  the  vast  complex  of  government,  industry,  science, 
art  —  all  that  we  call  civilization.  In  a  very  genuine  sense, 
there  is  nothing  new  under  the  sun.  Matter  and  men  remain 
the  same. 

But  while  this  fundamental  material  is  constant,  it  may  be 
given  various  forms;  and  both  Nature  itself  and  the  nature  of 
man  may,  with  increasing  knowledge,  be  increasingly  con- 
trolled in  man's  own  interests.  The  railroad,  the  wireless, 
and  the  aeroplane  are  striking  and  familiar  testimonies  to  the 
efficacy  of  man's  informed  mastery  of  the  world  into  which 
he  is  born.  In  the  field  of  physical  science,  man  has,  in  the 
short  period  of  three  centuries  since  Francis  Bacon  sounded 
the  trumpet  call  to  the  study  of  Nature  and  Newton  dis- 
covered the  laws  of  motion,  magnificently  attained  and  ap- 
preciated the  power  to  know  exactly  what  the  facts  of  Nature 
are,  what  consequences  follow  from  them,  and  how  they  may 
be  applied  to  enlarge  the  boundaries  of  the  "empire  of  man." 

In  his  control  of  human  nature,  which  is  in  its  outlines  as 
•fixed  and  constant  as  the  laws  that  govern  the  movements  of 
the  stars,  man  has  been  much  less  conscious  and  deliberate, 
and  more  frequently  moved  by  passion  and  ignorance  than 
by  reason  and  knowledge.  Nevertheless,  custom  and  law, 


x  INTRODUCTION 

the  court,  the  school,  and  the  market  have  similarly  been  man's 
ways  of  utilizing  the  original  equipment  of  impulse  and  desire 
which  Nature  has  given  him.  It  is  hard  to  believe,  but  as  cer- 
tain as  it  is  incredible,  that  the  modern  professional  and  busi- 
nessman, movingfreely  amid  the  diverse  contacts  and  complex- 
ities pictured  in  any  casual  newspaper,  in  a  world  of  factories 
and  parliaments  and  aeroplanes,  is  by  nature  no  different  from 
the  superstitious  savage  hunting  precarious  food,  living  in 
caves,  and  finding  every  stranger  an  enemy.  The  difference 
between  the  civilization  of  an  American  city  and  that  of  the 
barbarian  tribes  of  Western  Europe  thousands  of  years  ago 
is  an  accurate  index  of  the  extent  to  which  man  has  suc- 
ceeded in  redirecting  and  controlling  that  fundamental  human 
nature  which  has  in  its  essential  structure  remained  the  same 
through  history. 

Man's  ways  of  association  and  cooperation,  for  the  most 
part,  have  not  been  deliberately  developed,  since  men  lived 
and  had  to  live  together  long  before  a  science  of  human  rela- 
tions could  have  been  dreamed  of.  Only  to-day  are  we  begin- 
ning to  have  an  inkling  of  the  fundamental  facts  of  human 
nature.  But  it  has  become  increasingly  plain  that  progress 
depends  not  merely  on  increasing  our  knowledge  and  appli- 
cation of  the  laws  which  govern  man's  physical  environment. 
Machinery,  factories,  and  automatic  reapers  are,  after  all, 
only  instruments  for  man's  welfare.  If  man  is  ever  to  attain 
the  happiness  and  rationality  of  which  philosophers  and  re- 
formers have  continually  been  dreaming,  there  must  also 
be  an  understanding  of  the  laws  which  govern  man  himself, 
laws  quite  as  constant  as  those  of  physics  and  chemistry. 

Education  and  political  organization,  the  college  and  the 
legislature,  however  remote  they  may  seem  from  the  random 
impulses  to  cry  and  clutch  at  random  objects  with  which  a 
baby  comes  into  the  world,  must  start  from  just  such  mate- 
rials as  these.  The  same  impulse  which  prompts  a  five-year- 
old  to  put  blocks  into  a  symmetrical  arrangement  is  the  stuff 
out  of  which  architects  or  great  executives  are  made.  Pa- 


INTRODUCTION  ri 

triotism  and  public  spirit  find  their  roots  back  in  the  same 
unlearned  impulses  which  make  a  baby  smile  back  when 
amiled  at,  and  makes  it,  when  a  little  older,  cry  if  left  too 
long  alone  or  in  a  strange  place.  All  the  native  biological 
impulses,  which  are  almost  literally  our  birthright,  may,  when 
understood,  be  modified  through  education,  public  opinion, 
and  law,  and  directed  in  the  interests  of  human  ideals. 

It  is  the  aim  of  this  book  to  indicate  some  of  these  more 
outstanding  human  traits,  and  the  factors  which  must  be 
taken  into  account  if  they  are  to  be  controlled  in  the  inter- 
ests of  human  welfare.  It  is  too  often  forgotten  that  the  prob- 
lems which  are  to  be  dealt  with  in  the  world  of  politics,  of 
business,  of  law,  and  education,  are  much  complicated  by 
the  fact  that  human  beings  are  so  constituted  that  given  cer- 
tain situations,  they  will  do  certain  things  in  certain  inevitable 
ways.  These  problems  are  much  clarified  by  knowing  what 
these  fundamental  ways  of  men  are. 


HUMAN  TRAITS  AND  THEIR 
SOCIAL  SIGNIFICANCE 

PART  I 

CHAPTER  I 
TYPES  OF  HUMAN  BEHAVIOR 

The  human  animal.  Any  attempt  to  understand  what  the 
nature  of  man  is,  apart  from  its  training  and  education  during 
the  life  of  the  individual,  must  start  with  the  realization  that 
man  is  a  human  animal.  As  a  human  being  he  is  strikingly 
set  off  by  his  upright  posture  and  his  large  and  flexible  hand. 
But  chiefly  he  is  distinguished  by  his  plastic  brain,  upon 
which  depends  his  capacity  to  perform  the  complex  mental 
activities  —  from  administering  a  railroad  to  solving  prob- 
lems in  calculus  —  which  constitute  man's  outstanding  and 
exclusive  characteristic.1 

But  hi  his  structure  and  functions  man  bears,  as  is  now  well 
known,  a  marked  resemblance  to  the  lower  animals.  His 
respiratory  and  digestive  organs,  for  example,  may  be  dupli- 
cated as  far  down  in  the  animal  scale  as  birds  and  chickens.9 
Man's  whole  physical  apparatus  and  mode  of  life,  save  hi 
complexity  and  refinement  of  operations,  are  the  same  as 
those  of  any  of  the  higher  mammals.  But  more  important  for 
the  student  of  human  behavior,  man's  mental  life  —  that  is, 
his  way  of  responding  to  and  dealing  with  his  environment  — 
is  in  large  part  identical  with  that  of  the  lower  annuals,  espe- 
cially of  the  most  highly  developed  vertebrates,  such  as  the 
monkey.  They  have,  up  to  a  certain  point,  precisely  the 

1  The  thinking  process  is  discussed  in  detail  in  chapters  in  and  xiv. 
1  With  certain  modifications  accounted  for  in  their  historical  "descent" 
with  modification  from  a  common  ancestor.    6«e  Scott:  Theory  of  Evolution. 


2  HUMAN  TRAITS 

same  equipment  for  adjusting  themselves  to  the  conditions  of 
life.  Apart  from  education,  both  man  and  animal  are  en- 
dowed with  a  set  of  more  or  less  fixed  tendencies  to  respond  in 
specific  ways  to  specific  stimuli.  These  inborn  or  congenital 
tendencies  are  generally  known  as  reflexes  or  instincts.1 
These  are  unlearned  ways,  exhibited  by  both  human  and 
animal  organisms,  of  responding  promptly  and  precisely,  and 
in  a  comparatively  changeless  manner  to  a  given  stimulus 
from  the  environment.  These  tendencies  to  act,  while  they 
may  be,  and  most  frequently  are  of  advantage  to  the  organ- 
ism, are  not  conscious  or  acquired.  They  are  irresistible 
impulses  to  do  just  such-and-such  particular  things  in  such- 
and-such  particular  ways  when  confronted  with  just  such- 
and-such  particular  situations.  In  the  well-known  words  of 
James: 

The  cat  runs  after  the  mouse,  runs  or  shows  fight  before  the  dog, 
avoids  falling  from  walls  and  trees,  shuns  fire  and  water,  etc.,  not 
because  he  has  any  notion  either  of  life  or  death,  or  of  self-preserva- 
tion. He  has  probably  attained  to  no  one  of  these  conceptions  in 
such  a  way  as  to  react  definitely  upon  it.  He  acts  in  each  case  sepa- 
rately, and  simply  because  he  cannot  help  it;  being  so  framed  that 
when  that  particular  running  thing  called  a  mouse  appears  in  his 
field  of  vision  he  must  pursue;  that  when  that  particular  barking  and 
obstreperous  thing  called  a  dog  appears  there  he  must  retire,  if  at  a 
distance,  and  scratch  if  close  by;  that  he  must  withdraw  his  feet  from 
water,  and  his  face  from  flame.' 

Similarly,  the  baby's  reaching  for  random  objects,  and 
sucking  them  when  seized,  its  turning  its  head  aside,  when  it 
has  had  enough  food,  its  crying  when  alone  and  hungry,  are 
not,  for  the  most  part,  deliberate  methods  invented  by  the 
infant  to  maintain  its  own  welfare,  but  are  almost  as  auto- 
matic as  the  number  of  sounds  omitted  by  the  cuckoo  clock  at 
midnight. 

1  The  difference  between  the  two  is  largely  one'of  complexity.  By  a  reflex 
is  meant  a  very  simple  and  comparatively  rigid  response;  by  an  instinct  a 
series  of  reflexes  such  that  when  the  first  is  set  off,  the  remainder  are  set  off 
in  a  regularly  determinate  succession. 

*  James:  Psychology,  vol.  u,  p.  384. 


TYPES  OF  HUMAN  BEHAVIOR  3 

Why  do  men  always  lie  down,  when  they  can,  on  soft  beds  rather 
than  on  hard  floors?  Why  do  they  sit  round  the  stove  on  a  cold  day? 
.  . .  Why  does  the  maiden  interest  the  youth  so  that  everything 
about  her  seems  more  important  and  significant  than  anything  else 
in  the  world?  Nothing  more  can  be  said  than  that  these  are  human 
ways,  and  that  every  creature  likes  its  own  ways,  and  takes  to  the 
following  of  them  as  a  matter  of  course. . . .  Not  one  man  in  a  bil- 
lion, when  taking  his  dinner,  thinks  of  utility.  He  eats  because 
the  food  tastes  good,  and  makes  him  want  more.  If  you  ask  him 
why  he  should  want  to  eat  more  of  what  tastes  like  that,  instead  of 
revering  you  as  a  philosopher,  he  will  probably  laugh  at  you  for  a 
fool.1 

These  inborn  tendencies  to  act  vary  in  complexity  from  the 
withdrawing  of  a  hand  from  a  hot  stove  or  the  jerking  of  the 
knee  when  touched  in  a  particular  spot  to  startlingly  involved 
trains  of  action  to  be  found  in  the  behavior  of  certain  of  the 
lower  animals.  Bergson  cites  the  case  of  a  species  of  wasp 
which  with  a  skill,  unconscious  though  it  be,  resembling  that 
of  the  expert  surgeon,  paralyzes  a  caterpillar  without  killing 
it,  and  carries  it  home  for  food  for  its  young.2  There  are 
again  many  cases  of  "insects  which  invariably  lay  their  eggs 
in  the  only  places  where  the  grubs,  when  hatched,  will  find  the 
food  they  need  and  can  eat,  or  where  the  larvae  will  be  able  to 
attach  themselves  as  parasites  to  some  host  in  a  way  that  is 
necessary  to  their  survival."  *  In  many  instances  these  com- 
plicated trains  of  action  are  performed  by  the  animal  in  a 
situation  absolutely  strange  to  it,  without  its  ever  having  seen 
the  act  performed  before,  having  been  born  frequently  after 
its  parents  had  died,  and  itself  destined  to  die  long  before  its 
grubs  will  have  hatched. 

The  number  and  variety  of  man's  instincts.  Various  at- 
tempts have  been  made,  notably  by  such  men  as  James, 
McDougall,  and  Thorndike,  to  enumerate  and  classify  the 
tendencies  with  which  man  is  at  birth  endowed,  or  which, 

1  Jamea:  Psychology,  vol.  n,  p.  388. 

*  Bergson:  Creative  Evolution,  p.  172. 

*  McDougall:  Social  Psychology,  p.  24.     (Except  where  otherwise  noted, 
all  references  are  to  the  fourth  edition.) 


4  HUMAN  TRAITS 

like  the  sex  instinct,  make  their  appearance  at  a  certain  stage 
in  biological  growth,  regardless  of  the  particular  training  to 
which  the  individual  has  been  subjected.  Earlier  classifica- 
tions were  inclined  to  speak  of  instincts  as  very  general  and  as 
half  consciously  purposeful  hi  character.  Thus  it  is  still  popu- 
larly customary  to  speak  of  the  "instinct  of  self-preserva- 
tion," the  "instinct  of  hunger,"  and  the  "parental  instinct." 
The  tendency  of  present-day  psychology  is  to  note  just  what 
responses  take  place  in  given  specific  situations.  As  a  result 
of  such  observation,  particularly  by  such  biologists  as  Watson 
and  Jennings,1  instincts  have  come  to  be  regarded  not  as 
general  and  purposive  but  as  specific  and  automatic.  Thus  it 
is  no  instinct  of  self-preservation  that  drives  the  child  to 
blink  its  eyes  at  a  blinding  flash  of  light;  it  is  solely  and  simply 
the  very  direct  and  immediate  tendency  to  blink  its  eyes  hi 
just  that  way  whenever  such  a  phenomenon  occurs.  It  is  no 
deliberate  intent  to  inhale  the  oxygen  necessary  to  the  suste- 
nance of  lif  e  that  causes  us  to  breathe.  No  more  is  it  a  con- 
scious plan  to  provide  the  organism  with  nourishment  that 
prompts  us  to  eat  our  breakfast  hi  the  morning;  it  is  simply 
the  immediate  and  irresistible  enticement  of  food  after  a 
night's  fast.  Not  a  deliberate  motive  of  maternity  prompts 
the  mother  to  caress  and  care  for  her  baby,  but  an  inevitable 
and  almost  invincible  tendency  to  "cuddle  it  when  it  cries, 
smile  when  it  smiles,  fondle  it  and  coo  to  it  hi  turn." 

In  the  last  few  years,  as  a  result  of  the  observation  of 
animals  under  laboratory  conditions,  there  has  been  increas- 
ing evidence  of  a  large  number  of  specific  tendencies  to  act  in 
specific  ways,  in  response  to  specific  given  stimuli.  As  no 
stimuli  are  ever  quite  alike,  and  no  annual  organism  is  ever  in 
exactly  the  same  physico-chemical  condition  at  two  different 
tunes,  there  are  slight  but  negligible  differences  in  response. 
Allowing  for  these,  animals  may  be  said  to  be  equipped  with  a 
wide  variety  of  tendencies  to  do  precisely  the  same  things 
under  recurrent  identical  circumstances.  The  ami  of  the 

1  Watson:  Behavior.    II.  8.  Jennings:  Behavior  of  the  Lower  Organism*. 


TYPES  OF  HUMAN  BEHAVIOR  5 

experimental  psychologist  is  to  discover  just  what  actions 
occur  when  an  animal  is  placed  in  any  given  circumstances, 
precisely  as  the  chemist  notes  what  reaction  occurs  when  two 
chemicals  are  combined. 

While  experiments  with  the  human  infant  are  more  difficult 
and  rare  (and  while  it  is  among  infants  alone  among  humans 
that  original  tendencies  can  be  observed  free  from  the  modifi- 
cations to  which  they  are  so  soon  subjected  by  training  and 
environment)  careful  observers  find  in  the  human  animal  also 
a  great  number  of  these  specific  ways  of  acting.  Just  which  of 
the  large  number  of  observed  universal  modes  of  behavior  are 
original  and  unlearned,  is  a  matter  still  in  controversy  among 
psychologists.  There  is  practically  complete  agreement 
among  them,  however,  with  respect  to  such  comparatively 
simple  acts  as  grasping,  reaching,  putting  things  in  the  mouth, 
creeping,  standing  and  walking,  and  the  making  of  sounds 
more  or  less  articulate.  Most  psychologists  recognize  even 
such  highly  complicated  tendencies  as  man's  restlessness  in 
the  absence  of  other  people,  his  tendency  to  attract  their  at- 
tention when  present,  to  be  at  once  pitying  and  pugnacious, 
greedy  and  sympathetic,  to  take  and  to  follow  a  lead. 
/  In  general,  it  may  be  said  that  man  possesses  not  fewer 
instincts  than  animals,  but  more.  His  superiority  consists  in 
'the  fact  that  he  has  at  once  more  tendencies  to  respond,  and 
that  in  him  these  tendencies  are  more  flexible  and  more  sus- 
ceptible of  modification  than  those  of  animals.  A  chicken  has 
at  the  start  the  advantage  over  the  human;  it  can  at  first  do 
more  things  and  do  them  better.  But  it  is  the  human  baby 
who,  though  it  cannot  find  food  for  itself  at  the  start,  can 
eventually  be  taught  to  distinguish  between  the  nutritive 
values  of  food,  secure  food  from  remote  sources,  and  make 
palatable  food  from  materials  which  when  raw  are  inedible. 

An  inventory  and  classification  of  man's  original  tendencies 
is  made  more  difficult  precisely  because  these  are  so  easily 
modifiable  and  are,  even  in  earliest  childhood,  seldom  seen  in 
their  original  and  simple  form. 


6  HUMAN  TRAITS 

At  any  given  time  a  human  being  is  being  acted  upon  by  a 
wide  variety  of  competing  and  contemporaneous  stimuli.  In 
walking  down  a  street  with  a  friend,  for  example,  one  may  be 
attracted  by  the  array  of  bright  colors,  of  flowers,  jewelry  and 
clothing  hi  the  shop  windows,  blink  one's  eyes  in  the  glare  of 
the  sun,  feel  a  satisfaction  hi  the  presence  of  other  people  and 
a  loneliness  for  a  particular  friend,  dodge  before  a  passing 
automobile,  be  envious  of  its  occupant,  and  smile  benevo- 
lently at  a  passing  child.  It  would  be  difficult  in  so  complex 
and  so  characteristically  familiar  a  situation  to  pick  out  com- 
pletely and  precisely  the  original  human  tendencies  at  work, 
and  trace  out  all  the  modifications  to  which  they  have  been 
subjected  hi  the  course  of  individual  experience.  For  even 
single  responses  hi  the  adult  are  not  the  same  in  quality  or 
scope  as  they  were  to  start  with.  Even  the  simplest  stimuli 
of  taste  and  of  sound  are  different  to  the  adult  from  what 
they  are  to  the  child.  What  for  the  adult  is  a  printed  page 
full  of  significance  is  for  the  baby  a  blur,  or  at  most  chaotic 
black  marks  on  white  paper. 

But  while  it  is  difficult  to  disentangle  out  of  even  a  simple, 
everyday  occurrence  the  original  unlearned  human  impulses 
at  work,  experimentation  on  both  humans  and  animals  seems 
clearly  to  establish  that  "in  the  same  organism  the  same  situ- 
ation will  always  produce  the  same  response."  It  also  seems 
clear  that  in  man  these  native  unlearned  responses  to  given 
stimuli  are  unusually  numerous  and  unusually  controllable. 
Upon  the  possibility  of  the  ready  modification  of  these  origi- 
nal elements  in  man's  behavior  his  whole  education  and  social 
life  depend. 

Learning  in  animals  and  men.  Men  and  animals  are  alike 
not  only  in  that  they  have  in  common  a  large  number  of  tend- 
encies to  respond  in  definite  ways  to  definite  stimuli,  but  that 
these  responses  may  be  modified,  some  strengthened  through 
use,  and  others  weakened  or  altogether  discarded  through 
disuse.  In  both  also  the  survival  and  strengthening  of  some 
native  tendencies,  the  weakening  and  even  the  complete 


TYPES  OF  HUMAN  BEHAVIOR  7 

elimination  of  others,  depends  primarily  upon  the  satisfaction 
which  flows  from  their  practice. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  any  situation,  while  it  calls 
forth  on  the  part  of  the  organism  a  characteristic  response, 
may  also  call  out  others,  especially  if  the  first  response  made 
fails  to  secure  satisfaction,  or  if  it  places  the  animal  in  a  posi- 
tively annoying  situation.  There  are  certain  situations  — 
being  fed  when  hungry,  resting  when  weary,  etc.  —  which  are 
immediate  and  original  satisfiers;  there  are  others  such  as  bit- 
ter tastes,  being  looked  at  with  scorn  by  others,  etc.,  which 
are  natural  annoyers.  The  first  type  the  animal  will  try  vari- 
ous means  of  attaining;  the  second,  various  means  of  avoiding. 
Through  "trial  and  error,"  through  going  through  every  re- 
sponse it  can  make  to  a  given  situation,  the  animal  or  human 
hits  upon  some  response  which  will  secure  for  it  satisfaction  or 
rid  it  of  a  positive  annoyance.  Once  this  successful  response 
is  hit  upon,  it  tends  to  be  retained  and  becomes  habitual  in 
that  situation,  while  other  random  responses  are  eliminated. 

As  will  be  pointed  out  hi  the  following,  man  has  developed 
in  the  process  of  reflection  a  much  more  effective  and  subtle 
mode  of  attaining  desirable  results,  but  a  large  part  of  human 
acquisition  of  skill,  whether  at  the  typewriter,  the  piano,  the 
tennis  court,  or  hi  dealing  with  other  people,  is  still  a  matter 
of  making  every  random  response  that  the  situation  provokes 
until  the  appropriate  and  effective  one  is  hit  upon,  and  making 
this  latter  response  more  immediately  upon  repeated  experi- 
ences in  the  same  situation.  Once  this  effective  response  be- 
comes habitual  it  is  just  as  automatic  in  character  as  if  it  had 
been  made  immediately  the  first  time,  and  it  is  almost  impos- 
sible without  knowledge  of  the  animal's  or  the  human's 
earlier  modes  of  response  to  detect  the  difference  between  an 
acquired  response  and  one  that  is  inborn. 

This  process  of  trial  and  error  is  perhaps  best  illustrated  in 
the  behavior  of  the  lower  animals  where  careful  experiments 
have  been  conducted  for  the  purpose  of  tracing  the  process  of 
learning.  In  the  classic  cases  reported  by  Thoradike  and 


8  HUMAN  TRAITS 

Watson,  when  chickens,  rats,  and  cats  were  placed  in  situa- 
tions where  the  first  response  failed  to  bring  satisfaction, 
their  behavior  was  in  each  case  marked  by  the  following  fea- 
tures. At  the  first  trial  the  animals  in  every  case  performed  a 
wide  variety  of  acts  useless  to  secure  the  satisfaction  they 
were  instinctively  seeking,  whether  it  was  food  in  a  box,  or 
freedom  from  confinement  in  a  cage.  Upon  repeated  trials 
the  act  appropriate  to  securing  satisfaction  was  performed  with 
increasing  elimination  of  useless  acts,  and  consequent  decrease 
of  the  time  required  to  perform  the  act  requisite  to  secure 
food,  or  freedom,  or  both,  as  the  case  might  be.  One  of  Thorn- 
dike's  famous  cat  experiments  is  best  told  in  his  own  report: 

If  we  take  a  box  twenty  by  fifteen  by  twelve  inches,  replace  its 
cover  and  front  side  by  bars  an  inch  apart,  and  make  in  this  front 
side  a  door  arranged  so  as  to  fall  open  when  a  wooden  button  inside 
is  turned  from  a  vertical  to  a  horizontal  position,  we  shall  have  means 
to  observe  such  [learning  by  trial  and  error].  A  kitten,  three  to 
six  months  old,  if  put  in  this  box  when  hungry,  a  bit  of  fish  being 
left  outside,  reacts  as  follows:  It  tries  to  squeeze  through  between 
the  bars,  claws  at  the  bars,  and  at  loose  things  in  and  out  of  the  box, 
stretches  its  paws  out  between  the  bars,  and  bites  at  its  confining 
walls.  Some  one  of  all  these  promiscuous  clawings,  squeezings,  and 
bitings  turns  round  the  wooden  button,  and  the  kitten  gains  freedom 
and  food.  By  repeating  the  experience  again  and  again  the  animal 
gradually  comes  to  omit  all  the  useless  clawings,  and  the  like,  and  to 
manifest  only  the  particular  impulse  (e.g.,  to  claw  hard  at  the  top  of 
the  button  with  the  paw  or  to  push  against  one  side  of  it  with  the 
nose)  which  has  resulted  successfully.  It  turns  the  button  around 
without  delay  whenever  put  in  the  box.  It  has  formed  an  associa- 
tion between  the  situation  confined  in  a  box  with  a  certain  appearance 
and  the  response  of  clawing  at  a  certain  part  of  that  box  in  a  certain 
definite  way.  Popularly  speaking,  it  has  learned  to  open  a  door  by 
pressing  a  button.  To  the  uninitiated  observer  the  behavior  of  the 
six  kittens  that  thus  freed  themselves  from  such  a  box  would  seem 
wonderful  and  quite  unlike  their  ordinary  accomplishments  of  find- 
ing their  way  to  their  food  or  beds. ...  A  certain  situation  arouses, 
by  virtue  of  accident  or  more  often  instinctive  equipment,  certain 
responses.  One  of  these  happens  to  be  an  act  appropriate  to  secure 
freedom.  It  is  stamped  in  in  connection  with  that  situation.1 
1  Tborndike:  Educational  Psychology,  Briefer  Course,  p.  129. 


TYPES  OF  HUMAN  BEHAVIOR  » 

Perhaps  the  most  significant  factor  to  be  noted  in  this,  and 
in  similar  cases,  is  that  the  successful  response  to  a  baffling 
situation  is  acquired,  and  that  this  acquisition  remains  a  more 
or  less  permanent  possession  of  the  human  or  animal  organ- 
ism. Particularly  important  for  the  problem  and  practice  of 
education  is  the  mechanism  by  which  these  learned  modes  of 
behavior  are  acquired.  For,  to  attain  skill,  knowledge,  in- 
tellect, character,  is  to  attain  certain  determinate  habits  of 
action,  certain  recurrent  and  stable  ways  of  responding  to  a 
situation.  The  reason  why  the  cat  in  the  box  ceased  to  per- 
form the  hundred  and  one  random  acts  of  clawing  and  biting, 
and  after  a  number  of  trials  got  down  to  the  immediately 
necessary  business  of  turning  the  button  was  because  it  had 
learned  that  one  thing  only,  out  of  the  multitude  of  things  it 
could  do,  would  enable  it  to  get  out  of  the  box  and  get  its 
food.  To  say  that  it  learned  this  is  not  to  say  that  it  con- 
sciously realized  it;  it  means  simply  that  when  placed  in  such 
a  situation  again  after  having  been  placed  in  it  a  sufficient 
number  of  times,  it  will  be  set  off  to  the  turning  of  the  button 
which  gets  it  food,  instead  of  biting  bars  and  clawing  at 
random  —  actions  which  merely  serve  further  to  frustrate  its 
hunger.  The  animal  has  not  consciously  learned,  but  its  nerv- 
ous system  has  been  mechanically  directed. 

A  large  part  of  the  education  of  humans  as  well  as  of  ani- 
mals consists  precisely  in  the  modification  of  our  original 
responses  to  situations  by  a  trial-and-error  discovery  of  ways 
of  attaining  satisfactory  and  avoiding  annoying  situations. 
Both  animals  and  humans,  when  they  have  several  tunes  per- 
formed a  certain  act  that  brings  satisfaction,  tend,  on  the  re- 
currence of  a  similar  situation,  to  repeat  that  action  immedi- 
ately and  to  eliminate  with  successive  repetitions  almost  all 
the  other  responses  which  are  possible,  but  which  are  ineffec- 
tive in  the  attainment  of  some  specific  satisfaction.  The 
whole  training  imposed  by  civilization  on  the  individual  is 
based  ultimately  on  this  fundamental  fact  that  human  beings 
can  be  taught  to  modify  their  behavior,  to  change  their  origi- 


10  HUMAN  TRAITS 

nal  response  to  a  situation  in  the  light  of  the  consequences 
that  follow  it.  This  means  that  while  man's  nature  remains 
on  the  whole  constant,  its  operations  may  be  indefinitely 
varied  by  the  results  which  follow  the  operation  of  any  given 
instinct.  The  child  has  its  original  tendency  to  rtfach  toward 
bright  objects  checked  by  the  experience  of  putting  its  hand 
in  the  flame.  Later  his  tendency  to  take  all  the  food  within 
reach  may  be  checked  by  the  looks  of  scorn  which  follow  that 
manifestation  of  man's  original  greed,  or  the  punishment  and 
privation  which  are  correlated  with  it.  Through  experience 
with  punishment  and  reward,  humans  may  be  taught  to  do 
precisely  the  opposite  of  what  would  have  been  then*  original 
impulse  in  any  given  situation,  just  as  the  monkey  reported 
by  one  experimenter  may  be  taught  to  go  to  the  top  of  his 
cage  whenever  a  banana  has  been  placed  at  the  bottom. 

The  prolonged  period  of  infancy.  Probably  the  most  sig- 
nificant and  unique  fact  of  human  behavior  is  the  period  of 
"prolonged  infancy  "which  is  characteristic  of  human  beings 
alone.  Fiske  and  Butler  in  particular  have  stressed  the  im- 
portance of  this  human  trait.  In  the  lower  animals  the  period 
of  infancy  —  that  is,  the  period  during  which  the  young  are 
dependent  upon  their  parents  for  food,  care,  and  training  — 
is  very  short,  extending  even  in  the  highest  form  of  ape  to  not 
more  than  three  months.  This  would  appear,  at  first  blush, 
to  be  a  great  advantage  possessed  by  the  lower  animals. 
They  come  into  the  world  equipped  with  a  variety  of  tenden- 
cies to  act  which,  within  a  week,  or,Nas  hi  the  case  of  chick- 
ens, almost  immediately  after  birth,  are  perfectly  adapted  to 
secure  for  them  food,  shelter,  and  protection.  They  are 
mechanisms  from  the  beginning  perfectly  adjusted  to  their 
environment. 

The  human  inf ant,  while  it  is  born  with  a  greater  number  of 
instinctive  activities  than  other  animals,  is  able  to  make  little 
use  of  them  just  as  they  stand.  For  years  after  birth  it  is 
helplessly  dependent  on  others  to  supply  its  most  elementary 
needs.  It  must  be  fed,  carried,  and  sheltered;  it  cannot  by 


TYPES  OF  HUMAN  BEHAVIOR  11 

itself  even  reach  for  an  object,  and  it  cannot  for  nearly  two 
years  after  birth  specifically  communicate  its  wants  to  other 
people.  But  this  comparatively  long  helplessness  of  the  hu- 
man infant  is  perhaps  the  chief  source  of  human  progress. 

The  human  baby,  because  it  can  do  so  little  at  the  start, 
because  it  has  so  many  tendencies  to  act  and  has  them  all  so 
plastic,  undeveloped,  and  modifiable,  has  to  a  unique  degree 
the  capacity  to  learn.  This  means  that  it  can  profit  by  the 
experience  of  others  and  adjust  itself  to  a  great  variety  and 
complexity  of  situations.  The  chicken  or  the  bird  can  do  a 
limited  number  of  things  perfectly,  but  it  is  as  if  it  had  a 
number  of  special  keys  opening  special  locks.  The  power  of 
modifying  these  instinctive  adjustments,  the  capacity  of 
learning,  is  like  being  put  in  -possession  of  a  pass-key.  As 
Professor  Dewey  puts  it,  "An  original  specialized  power  of 
adjustment  secures  immediate  efficiency,  but,  like  a  railway 
ticket,  it  is  good  for  one  route  only.  A  being  who,  in  order  to 
use  his  eyes,  ears,  hands,  and  legs,  has  to  experiment  in  making 
varied  combinations  of  their  reactions,  achieves  a  control 
that  is  flexible  and  varied."  1 

The  more  complex  the  environment  is  in  which  the  indi- 
vidual must  live,  the  longer  is  the  period  of  infancy  needed  in 
which  the  necessary  habits  and  capacities  may  be  acquired. 
In  the  human  being  the  period  of  infancy  extends  hi  a  literal 
sense  through  the  first  five  years  of  the  individual's  life.  But 
in  civilized  societies  it  extends  factually  much  longer.  By  the 
end  of  the  first  five  years  the  child's  physical  infancy  is  over. 
It  can  take  care  of  itself  so  far  as  actually  feeding  itself,  mov- 
ing about,  and  communicating  with  others  is  concerned.  But 
so  complex  are  the  habits  to  which  it  must  become  accus- 
tomed in  our  civilization  that  it  is  dependent  for  a  much 
longer  period.  The  whole  duration  of  the  child's  education  is 
a  prolongation  of  the  period  of  infancy.  In  most  civilized 
countries,  until  at  least  the  age  of  twelve,  the  child  is  literally 
dependent  on  its  parents.  And  with  every  advance  in  civili- 

1  Dewey:  Democracy  and  Education,  p.  53. 


12  HUMAN  TRAITS 

jsation  has  come  a  lengthening  in  the  period  of  education,  or 
learning. 

Intellectually,  the  period  of  infancy  might  be  said  not 
really  to  be  over  before  the  age  of  twenty-five,  by  which  time 
habits  of  mind  have  become  fairly  well  fixed.  The  brain  and 
the  nervous  system  remain  fairly  plastic  up  to  that  time,  and 
if  inquiry  and  learning  have  themselves  become  habitual, 
plasticity  may  last  even  longer.  In  the  cases  of  the  greatest 
intellects,  of  a  Darwin,  or  a  Newton,  one  might  almost  say 
the  period  of  infancy  lasts  to  old  age.  To  be  still  learning  at 
sixty  is  to  be  still  a  child  in  the  best  sense  of  the  word.  It  is 
still  to  be  open  rather  than  rigid,  still  to  be  profiting  by  ex- 
perience. 

The  great  social  advantages  of  the  prolonged  period  of 
infancy  lie  in  the  fact  that  there  is  a  unique  opportunity  both 
for  the  acquisition  by  individuals  and  for  the  imposition  on 
the  part  of  society  of  a  large  number  of  habits  of  great  social 
value.  The  human  being,  born  into  a  world  where  there  are 
many  things  to  be  learned  both  of  natural  law  and  human  re- 
lations, is,  as  it  were,  fortunately  born  ignorant.  He  has  in- 
stincts which  are  pliable  enough  to  be  modified  into  habits, 
and  in  consequence  socially  useful  habits  can  be  deliberately 
inculcated  in  the  immature  members  of  a  society  by  their 
elders.  The  whole  process  of  education  is  a  utilization  of 
man's  prolonged  period  of  infancy,  for  the  deliberate  acquisi- 
tion of  habits.  This  is  all  the  more  important  since  only  by 
such  habit  formation  during  the  long  period  of  human  infancy 
can  the  achievements  of  civilization  be  handed  down  from 
generation  to  generation.  Art,  science,  industrial  methods, 
social  customs,  these  are  not  inherited  by  the  individual  as 
are  the  instincts  of  sex,  pugnacity,  etc.  They  are  preserved 
only  because  they  can  be  taught  as  habits  to  those  beings  who 
come  into  the  world  with  a  plastic  equipment  of  instincts 
which  lend  themselves  for  a  long  time  to  modification. 

Consciousness  of  self  and  reaction  to  ideas.  A  significant 
difference  between  the  actions  of  human  beings  and  those  of 


TYPES  OF  HUMAN  BEHAVIOR  18 

animals  is  that  human  beings  are  conscious  of  themselves  as 
agents.  They  may  be  said  not  only  to  be  the  only  creatures 
who  know  what  they  are  doing,  but  the  only  ones  who  realize 
their  individuality  in  doing  it.  Dogs  and  cats  are  not,  so  far 
as  we  can  draw  inferences  from  extended  observation  of  even 
their  most  complex  actions,  conscious  of  themselves.  It  is 
not  very  long,  however,  before  the  human  animal  begins  to 
set  itself  off  against  the  remainder  of  the  universe,  to  discover 
that  it  is  something  different  from  the  chairs,  tables,  and  sur- 
rounding people  and  faces  that  at  first  constitute  for  it  only  a 
"blooming,  buzzing  confusion."  .  A  human  being  performs 
actions  with  a  feeling  of  awareness;  he  is  conscious  of  himself. 
This  consciousness  of  self  (see  chapters  vii  and  vin)  becomes 
more  acute  as  the  individual  grows  older.  It  has  conse- 
quences of  the  gravest  character  in  social,  political,  and 
economic  life.  It  is  a  large  factor  at  once  in  such  different 
qualities  of  character  as  ambition,  friendship,  humility,  and 
self-sacrifice,  and  is  responsible  in  large  measure  for  what- 
ever truth  there  is  in  the  familiarly  spoken-of  conflict  be- 
tween "the  individual  and  society." 

Human  beings  are,  furthermore,  susceptible  to  a  unique 
stimulation  to  action,  namely,  ideas.  Animals  respond  to 
things  only,  that  is,  to  things  in  gross: 

It  may  be  questioned  whether  a  dog  sees  a  rainbow  any  more 
than  he  apprehends  the  political  constitution  of  the  country  in  which 
he  lives.  The  same  principle  applies  to  the  kennel  in  which  he  sleeps 
and  the  meat  that  he  eats.  When  he  is  sleepy,  he  goes  to  the  kennel ; 
when  he  is  hungry,  he  is  excited  by  the  smell  and  color  of  meat;  be- 
yond this,  in  what  sense  does  he  see  an  object?  Certainly  he  does  not 
see  a  house  —  i.e.,  a  thing  with  all  the  properties  and  relations  of  a 
permanent  residence,  unless  he  is  capable  of  making  what  is  present 
a  uniform  sign  of  what  is  absent  —  unless  he  is  capable  of  thought.1 

Human  beings  can  respond  to  objects  as  signs  of  other 
things,  and,  what  is  perhaps  more  important,  can  abstract 
from  those  gross  total  objects  certain  qualities,  features,  ele- 

1  Dewey:  How  We  Think,  p.  17. 


14  HUMAN  TRAITS 

ments,  which  are  universally  associated  with  certain  conse- 
quences. They  can  respond  to  the  meaning  or  bearing  of  an 
object;  they  can  respond  to  ideas. 

To  respond  to  ideas  means  to  respond  to  significant 
similarities  in  objects  and  also  to  significant  differences.  It 
means  to  note  certain  qualities  that  objects  have  in  common, 
and  to  classify  these  common  qualities  and  their  consequences 
in  the  behavior  of  objects.  To  note  similarities  and  differ- 
ences in  the  behavior  of  objects  is  to  enable  individuals  to  act 
in  the  light  of  the  future.  The  printing  on  this  page  would  be 
to  a  dog  or  to  a  baby  merely  a  blur.  To  the  reader  the  black 
imprints  are  signs  or  symbols.  To  the  animal  a  red  lantern  is 
a  haze  of  light;  to  a  locomotive  engineer  it  is  a  sign  to  halt. 
To  respond  to  ideas  is  thus  to  act  in  the  light  of  a  future.  It 
makes  possible  acting  in  the  light  of  the  consequences  that 
can  be  foreseen.  Present  objects  or  features  of  objects  are 
responded  to  as  signs  of  future  or  absent  opportunities  or 
dangers.  Every  time  we  read  a  letter,  or  act  in  response  to 
something  somebody  has  told  us,  we  are  responding  not  to 
physical  stimuli  as  such,  but  to  those  stimuli  as  signs  of  other 
things. 

Human  beings  alone  possess  language.  The  value  of  the 
period  of  infancy  in  the  acquisition  of  habits  and  the  unique 
ability  of  human  beings  to  respond  to  ideas  is  inseparably 
connected  with  the  fact  that  man  alone  possesses  a  language, 
both  oral  and  written.  That  is  to  say,  men  alone  have  an  in- 
strument whereby  to  communicate  to  each  other  feelings, 
attitudes,  ideas,  information.  To  a  very  limited  degree,  of 
course,  animals  have  vocal  and  gesture  habits;  specific  cries  of 
hunger,  of  sex  desire,  or  distress.  But  they  cannot,  with  their 
limited  number  of  vocal  mechanisms,  possibly  develop  lan- 
guage habits,  develop  a  system  of  sounds  associated  with  defi- 
nite actions  and  capable  of  controlling  actions.  Only  human 
beings  can  produce  even  the  simplest  system  of  written  sym- 
bols, by  which  visual  stimuli  become  symbols  of  actions,  ob- 
jects, emotions,  or  ideas.  Biologists  —  in  particular  the  ex- 


TYPES  OF  HUMAN  BEHAVIOR  15 

perimentalist,  Watson  —  find,  in  the  capacity  for  language, 
man's  most  important  distinction  from  the  brute. 

Language  may  be  said,  in  fact,  to  be  the  most  indispensable 
instrument  of  civilization.  It  is  the  means  whereby  the  whole 
life  of  the  past  has  been  handed  to  us  in  the  present.  It  is  the 
means  whereby  we  in  turn  record,  preserve,  and  transmit  our 
science,  our  industrial  methods,  our  laws,  our  customs.  If 
human  relations  were  possible  at  all  without  a  language,  they 
would  have  to  begin  anew,  without  any  cultural  inheritance, 
in  each  generation.  Education,  the  transmitter  of  the 
achievements  of  the  mature  generation  to  the  one  maturing, 
is  dependent  on  this  unique  human  capacity  to  make  seen 
marks  and  heard  sounds  stand  for  other  things.  The  extent 
to  which  civilization  may  advance  is  contingent  upon  the  de- 
velopment of  adequate  language  habits.  And  human  beings 
have  perfected  a  language  sufficiently  complicated  to  com- 
municate hi  precise  and  permanent  form  then*  discoveries  of 
the  complex  relations  between  things  and  between  men. 

Man  the  only  maker  and  user  of  tools.  One  of  the  most 
important  ways  in  which  man  is  distinguished  from  the  lower 
animals  is  in  his  manufacture  and  use  of  tools.  So  far  as  we 
know  the  ability  to  manufacture  and  understand  the  use  of 
tools  is  possessed  by  man  alone.  "Monkeys  may  be  taught  a 
few  simple  operations  with  tools,  such  as  cracking  nuts  with 
a  stone,  but  usually  they  merely  mimic  a  man."1  ,'  Man's 
uniqueness  as  the  exclusive  maker  and  user  of  tools  is  made 
possible  by  two  things.  The  first  is  his  hand,  which  with  its 
four  fingers  and  a  thumb,  as  contrasted  with  the  monkey's 
five  fingers,  enables  him  to  pick  up  objects.  The  second  is  his 
capacity  for  reflection,  presently  to  be  discussed,  which  en- 
ables him  to  foresee  the  consequences  of  the  things  he  does. 

The  use  of  tools  of  increasing  refinement  and  complexity  is 
the  chief  method  by  which  man  has  progressed  from  the  life 
of  the  cave  man  to  the  complicated  industrial  civilization  of 
to-day.  Bergson  writes  in  this  connection: 

1  Mills:  The  Realities  of  Modern  Science,  p.  1. 


16  HUMAN  TRAITS 

As  regards  human  intelligence,  it  has  not  been  sufficiently  noted 
that  mechanical  invention  has  been  from  the  first  its  essential  fea- 
ture, that  even  to-day  our  social  life  gravitates  around  the  manu- 
facture and  use  of  artificial  instruments,  that  the  inventions  which 
strew  the  road  of  progress  have  also  traced  its  direction.  This  we 
hardly  realize,  because  it  takes  us  longer  to  change  ourselves  than  to 
change  our  tools.  Our  individual  and  even  social  habits  survive  a 
good  while  the  circumstances  for  which  they  were  made,  so  that  the 
ultimate  effects  of  an  invention  are  not  observed  until  its  novelty 
is  already  out  of  sight.  A  century  has  elapsed  since  the  invention  of 
the  steam  engine,  and  we  are  only  just  beginning  to  feel  the  depths 
of  the  shock  it  gave  us.  But  the  revolution  it  has  effected  in  indus- 
try has  nevertheless  upset  human  relations  altogether.  New  ideas 
are  arising,  new  feelings  are  on  the  way  to  flower.  In  thousands  of 
years,  when,  seen  from  the  distance,  only  the  broad  lines  of  the  pres- 
ent age  will  still  be  visible,  our  wars  and  our  revolutions  will  count 
for  little,  even  supposing  they  are  remembered  at  all;  but  the  steam 
engine  and  the  procession  of  inventions  that  accompanied  it,  will 
perhaps  be  spoken  of  as  we  speak  of  the  bronze  or  of  the  chipped 
stone  of  prehistoric  times :  it  will  serve  to  define  an  age.  If  we  could 
rid  ourselves  of  all  pride,  if,  to  define  our  species,  we  kept  strictly  to 
what  the  historic  and  the  prehistoric  periods  show  us  to  be  the  con- 
stant characteristic  of  man  and  of  intelligence,  we  should  not  say 
Homo  sapiens,  but  Homo  faber.1 

Man's  intelligence,  it  has  so  often  been  said,  enables  him  to 
control  Nature,  but  his  intelligence  in  the  control  of  natural 
resources  is  dependent  for  effectiveness  on  adequate  material 
instruments.  One  may  subscribe,  though  with  qualification, 
to  Bergson's  further  statement,  that  "intelligence,  considered 
in  what  seems  to  be  its  original  feature,  is  the  faculty  of 
manufacturing  artificial  objects,  especially  tools  to  make 
tools,  and  of  indefinitely  varying  the  manufacture." 

Anthropologists  distinguish  the  prehistoric  epochs,  by  such 
terms  as  the  Stone,  Copper  or  Bronze,  and  Iron  Ages,  mean- 
ing thereby  to  indicate  what  progress  man  ha<J  made  in  the 
utilization  of  the  natural  resources  about  him.  We  date  the 
remote  periods  of  mankind  chiefly  by  the  mementos  we  have 
of  the  kinds  of  tools  they  used  and  the  methods  they  had 

»  Bergson:  Creative  Evolution,  pp.  138-39. 


TYPES  OF  HUMAN  BEHAVIOR  17 

developed  in  the  control  of  their  environment.  The  knowl- 
edge of  how  to  start  and  maintain  a  fire  has  been  set  down 
as  the  practical  beginning  of  civilization.  Certainly  next  in 
importance  was  the  invention  of  the  simplest  tools.  There 
came  in  succession,  though  aeons  apart,  the  use  of  chipped 
stone  implements,  bronze  or  copper  instruments,  and  instru- 
ments made  of  iron.  In  the  ancient  world  we  find  the  inven- 
tion of  such  simple  machines  as  the  pulley,  the  use  of  rope, 
and  the  inclined  plane. 

Without  tracing  the  history  of  invention,  it  will  suffice  for 
our  purpose  to  point  out  that  agriculture  and  industry,  men's 
modes  of  exploiting  Nature,  are  dependent  intimately  on  the 
effectiveness  of  the  tools  at  their  disposal.  It  is  a  far  cry 
from  the  flint  hatchet  to  the  McCormick  reaper  and  the  mod- 
ern steel  works,  but  these  are  two  ends  of  the  same  process, 
that  process  which  distinguishes  man  from  all  other  animals, 
and  makes  human  civilization  possible:  that  is,  the  use  and 
the  manufacture  of  tools. 


CHAPTER  H 

TYPES  OF  HUMAN  BEHAVIOR  AND  THEIR  SOCIAL 
SIGNIFICANCE  — INSTINCT,  HABIT,  AND  EMOTION 

Instinctive  behavior.  We  have  already  noted  the  fact  that 
both  men  and  animals  are  equipped  with  a  wide  variety  of 
unlearned  responses  to  given  stimuli.  In  the  case  of  human 
beings,  this  original  equipment  varies  from  such  a  specific  re- 
action as  pulling  away  the  hand  when  it  is  pinched  or  burned, 
to  such  general  innate  tendencies  as  those  of  herding  or  play- 
ing with  other  people.  In  a  later  stage  of  this  discussion  we 
shall  examine  the  more  important  of  these  primary  modes  of 
behavior.  At  this  point  our  chief  concern  is  with  certain 
general  considerations  that  apply  to  them  all. 

The  equipment  of  instincts  with  which  a  human  being  is  at 
birth  endowed  must  be  considered  in  two  ways.  It  consists, 
in  the  first  place,  of  definite  and  unlearned  mechanisms  of 
behavior,  fixed  original  responses  to  given  stimuli.  These 
are,  at  the  same  tune,  the  original  driving  forces  of  action. 
An  instinct  is  at  once  an  unlearned  mechanism  for  making  a 
response  and  an  unlearned  tendency  to  make  it.  That  is, 
given  certain  situations,  human  beings  do  not  simply  utilize 
inborn  reactions,  but  exhibit  inborn  drives  or  desires  to  make 
those  reactions.  There  is  thus  an  identity  in  man's  native 
endowment  between  what  he  can  do  and  what  he  wants  to  do. 
Instincts  must  thus  be  regarded  as  both  native  capacities  and 
native  desires. 

Instincts  define,  therefore,  not  only  what  men  can  do,  but 
what  they  want  to  do.  They  are  at  once  the  primary  instru- 
ments and  the  primary  provocatives  to  action.  As  we  shall 
presently  see  in  some  detail,  human  beings  may  acquire 
mechanisms  of  behavior  with  which  they  are  not  at  birth  en- 
dowed. These  acquired  mechanisms  of  response  are  called 


INSTINCT,  HABIT,  AND  EMOTION  19 

habits.  And  with  the  acquisition  of  new  responses,  new  mo- 
tives or  tendencies  to  action  are  established.  Having  learned 
how  to  do  a  certain  thing,  individuals  at  the  same  time  learn 
to  want  to  do  it.  But  just  as  all  acquired  mechanisms  of 
behavior  are  modifications  of  some  original  instinctive  re- 
sponse, so  all  desires,  interests,  and  ideals  are  derivatives  of 
such  original  impulses  as  fear,  curiosity,  self-assertion,  and 
sex.  All  human  motives  can  be  traced  back  to  these  primary 
inborn  impulses  to  make  these  primary  inborn  responses.1 

The  necessity  for  the  control  of  instinct.  The  human 
being's  original  equipment  of  impulses  and  needs  constitutes 
at  once  an  opportunity  and  a  problem.  Instincts  are  the 
natural  resources  of  human  behavior,  the  raw  materials  of 
action,  feeling,  and  thought.  All  behavior,  whether  it  be  the 
"making  of  mud  pies  or  of  metaphysical  systems,"  is  an 
expression,  however  complicated  and  indirect,  of  some  of  the 
elements  of  the  native  endowments  of  human  beings.  In- 
stinctive tendencies  are,  as  we  have  seen,  the  primary  motives 
and  the  indispensable  instruments  of  action.  Without  them 
there  could  be  no  such  thing  as  human  purpose  or  preference; 
without  their  utilization  in  some  form  no  human  purpose 
or  preference  could  be  fulfilled.  But  like  other  natural  re- 
sources, men's  original  tendencies  must  be  controlled  and  re- 
directed, if  they  are  to  be  fruitfully  utilized  in  the  interests 
of  human  welfare. 

There  are  a  number  of  conditions  that  make  imperative  the 
control  of  native  tendencies.  The  first  of  these  is  intrinsic 
to  the  organization  of  instincts  themselves.  Human  beings 
are  born  with  a  plurality  of  desires,  and  happiness  consists  hi 

1  The  clearest  statement  of  the  status  of  instincts  as  both  mechanisms  of 
action  and  "  drives"  to  action  has  been  made  by  Professor  Wood  worth  in  hia 
Dynamic  Psychology.  No  one  else,  to  the  best  of  the  author's  knowledge,  haa 
made  the  distinction  with  the  same  clarity  and  emphasis,  though  it  has  been 
suggested  in  the  work  of  Thorndike  and  McDougall.  In  McDougall's 
definition  of  an  instinct  ho  recognizes  both  the  responsive  self  and  the  tend- 
ency to  make  the  response.  An  instinct  is,  for  him,  an  inherited  disposition 
which  determines  its  possessor,  in  respect  to  any  object,  "  to  act  in  regard  to 
it  in  a  particular  manner,  or  at  least  to  experience  an  impulse  to  such  action.'! 


20  HUMAN  TRAITS 

an  equilibrium  of  satisfactions.  But  impulses  are  stimulated 
at  random  and  collide  with  one  another.  Often  one  impulse, 
be  it  that  of  curiosity  or  pugnacity  or  sex,  can  be  indulged 
only  at  the  expense  or  frustration  of  many  others  just  as  nat- 
ural, normal,  and  inevitable.  There  is  a  certain  school  of 
philosophical  radicals  who  call  us  back  to  Nature,  to  a  life  of 
unconsidered  impulse.  They  paint  the  rapturous  and  pas- 
sionate moments  in  which  strong  human  impulses  receive 
satisfaction  without  exhibiting  the  disease  and  disorganiza- 
tion of  which  these  indulgences  are  so  often  the  direct  ante- 
cedents. A  life  is  a  long-time  enterprise  and  it  contains  a  di- 
versity of  desires.  If  all  of  these  are  to  receive  any  measure  of 
fulfillment  there  must  be  compromise  and  adjustment  between 
them;  they  must  all  be  subjected  to  some  measure  of  control. 
A  second  cause  for  the  control  of  instinct  lies  in  the  fact  that 
people  live  and  have  to  live  together.  The  close  association 
which  is  so  characteristic  of  human  life  is,  as  we  shall  see, 
partly  attributable  to  a  specific  gregarious  instinct,  partly  to 
the  increasing  need  for  cooperation  which  marks  the  increas- 
ing complexity  of  civilization.  But  whatever  be  its  causes, 
group  association  makes  it  necessary  that  men  regulate  their 
impulses  and  actions  with  reference  to  one  another.  En- 
dowed as  human  beings  are  with  more  or  less  identical  sets  of 
original  native  desires,  the  desires  of  one  cannot  be  freely  ful- 
filled without  frequently  coming  into  conflict  with  the  simi- 
lar desires  of  others.  Compromise  and  adjustment  must  be 
brought  about  by  some  intelligent  modification  both  of  action 
and  desire.  The  child's  curiosity,  the  acquisitiveness  or  sex 
desire  or  self-assertiveness  of  the  adult  must  be  checked  and 
modified  in  the  interests  of  the  group  among  which  the  indi- 
vidual lives.  One  may  take  a  simple  illustration  from  the 
everyday  life  of  a  large  city.  There  is,  for  most  individuals, 
an  intrinsic  satisfaction  in  fast  and  free  movement.  But  that 
desire,  exhibited  in  an  automobile  on  a  crowded  thorough- 
fare, will  interfere  with  just  as  normal,  natural,  and  inevita- 
ble desires  on  the  part  of  other  motorists  and  pedestrians., 


INSTINCT,  HABIT,  AND  EMOTION  21 

Still  another  imperative  reason  for  the  control  of  our  instinc- 
tive equipment  lies  in  the  fact  that  instincts  as  such  are  in- 
adequate to  adjust  either  the  individual  or  the  group  to  con- 
temporary conditions.  They  were  developed  in  the  process 
of  evolution  as  useful  methods  for  enabling  the  human  animal 
to  cope  with  a  radically  different  and  incomparably  simpler 
environment.  While  the  problems  and  processes  of  his  life 
and  environment  have  grown  more  complex,  man's  inborn 
equipment  for  controlling  the  world  he  lives  in  has,  through 
the  long  history  of  civilization,  remained  practically  un- 
changed. But  as  his  equipment  of  mechanisms  for  reacting 
to  situations  is  the  same  as  that  of  his  prehistoric  ancestors, 
so  are  his  basic  desires.  And  the  satisfaction  of  man's  pri- 
mary impulses  is  less  and  less  attainable  through  the  simple, 
unmodified  operation  of  -the  mechanisms  of  response  with 
which  they  are  associated.  In  the  satisfaction  of  the  desire 
for  food,  for  example,  which  remains  the  same  as  it  was  under 
primitive  forest  conditions,  much  more  complex  trains  of 
behavior  are  required  than  are  provided  by  man's  native 
equipment.  To  satisfy  the  hunger  of  the  contemporary  citi- 
zens of  New  York  or  London  requires  the  transformation  of 
capricious  instinctive  responses  into  systematic  and  controlled 
processes  of  habit  and  thought.  The  elaborate  systems  of 
agriculture,  transportation,  and  exchange  which  are  necessary 
in  the  satisfaction  of  the  simplest  wants  of  men  in  civilization 
could  never  be  initiated  or  carried  on  if  we  depended  on  the 
instincts  with  which  we  are  born. 

There  are  thus  seen  to  be  at  least  three  distinct  reasons  why 
our  native  endowment  of  capacities  and  desires  needs  control 
and  direction.  In  the  life  of  the  individual,  instinctive  de- 
sires must  be  adjusted  to  one  another  hi  order  that  their  har- 
monious fulfillment  may  be  made  possible.  The  desires  and 
native  reactions  of  individuals  must  be  checked  and  modified 
if  individuals  are  to  live  successfully  and  amiably  in  group 
association,  in  which  they  must,  in  any  case,  live.  And,  fi- 
nally, so  vastly  complicated  have  become  the  physical  and  the 


22  HUMAN  TRAITS 

social  machinery  of  civilized  life  that  it  is  literally  impossible 
to  depend  on  instincts  to  adjust  us  to  an  environment  far  dif- 
ferent from  that  to  which  they  were  in  the  process  of  evolution 
adapted.  In  the  light  of  these  conditions  men  have  found 
that  if  they  are  to  live  happily  and  fruitfully  together,  certain 
original  tendencies  must  be  stimulated  and  developed,  others 
weakened,  redirected,  and  modified,  and  still  others,  within 
limits  possibly,  altogether  repressed.  Individuals  display  at 
once  curiosity  and  fear,  pity  and  pugnacity,  acquisitiveness 
and  sympathy.  Some  of  these  it  has  been  found  useful  to 
allow  free  play;  others,  even  if  moderately  indulged,  may 
bring  injury  to  the  individual  and  the  group  in  which  his  own 
life  is  involved.  Education,  public  opinion,  and  law  are 
more  or  less  deliberate  methods  society  has  provided  for  the 
stimulation  and  repression  of  specific  instinctive  tendencies. 
Curiosity  and  sympathy  are  valued  and  encouraged  because 
they  contribute,  respectively,  to  science  and  to  cooperation; 
pugnacity  and  acquisitiveness  must  be  kept  hi  check  if  people 
are  not  simply  to  live,  but  to  live  together  happily. 

But  the  substitution  of  control  for  caprice  hi  the  living-out 
of  our  native  possibilities  is  as  difficult  as  it  is  imperative.  As 
already  noted,  instincts  are  imperious  driving  forces  as  well 
as  mechanisms.  While  we  can  modify  and  redirect  our  native 
tendencies  of  fear,  curiosity,  pugnacity,  and  the  like,  they  re- 
main as  strong  currents  of  human  behavior.  They  can  be 
turned  into  new  channels;  they  cannot  simply  be  blocked. 
Indeed,  in  some  cases,  it  is  clearly  the  social  environment  that 
needs  to  be  modified  rather  than  human  behavior.  Though 
it  be  juvenile  delinquency  for  a  boy  to  play  baseball  on  a 
crowded  street,  it  is  not  because  there  is  intrinsically  any- 
thing unwholesome  or  harmful  in  play.  What  is  clearly  de- 
manded is  not  a  crushing  of  the  play  instinct,  but  better  facili- 
ties for  its  expression.  A  boy's  native  sociability  and  gift  for 
leadership  may  make  him,  for  want  of  a  better  opportunity,  a 
gangster.  But  to  cut  off  those  impulses  altogether  would  be 
to  cut  off  the  sources  of  good  citizenship.  The  settlement 


INSTINCT,  HABIT,  AND  EMOTION  23 

clubs  or  the  Boy  Scout  organizations  in  our  large  cities  are  in- 
stances of  what  may  be  accomplished  in  the  way  of  providing 
a  social  environment  in  which  native  desires  can  be  freely  and 
fruitfully  fulfilled. 

Social  conditions  can  thus  be  modified  so  as  to  give  satisfac- 
tion to  a  larger  proportion  of  natural  desires.  On  the  other 
hand,  civilization  hi  the  twentieth  century  remains  so  diver- 
gent from  the  mode  of  life  to  which  man's  inborn  nature 
adapts  him  that  the  thwarting  of  instincts  becomes  inevita- 
ble. Impulses,  in  the  first  place,  arise  capriciously,  and  one 
of  the  conditions  of  our  highly  organized  life  is  regularity  and 
canalization  of  action.  Our  businesses  and  professions  can- 
not be  conducted  on  the  spontaneous  promptings  of  instinct. 
The  engineer,  the  factory  worker,  the  business  man,  cannot 
allow  themselves  to  follow  out  whatever  casual  desire  occurs 
to  them  whenever  it  occurs.  Stability  and  regularity  of  pro- 
cedure, demanded  in  most  professions,  are  incompatible  with 
random  impulsive  behavior.  To  facilitate  the  effectiveness 
of  certain  industries,  for  example,  it  may  be  necessary  to 
check  impulses  that  commonly  receive  adequate  satisfaction. 
Thus  it  may  be  essential  to  enforce  silence,  as  in  the  case  of 
telephone  operators  or  motormen,  simply  because  of  the  de- 
mands of  the  industry,  not  because  there  is  anything  intrinsi- 
cally deserving  of  repression  in  the  impulse  to  talk. 

Again,  the  mere  fact  that  a  man  lives  in  a  group  subjects 
him  to  a  thousand  restraints  and  restrictions  of  public  opinion 
and  law.  A  child  may  come  to  restrain  his  curiosity  when  he 
finds  it  condemned  as  inquisitiveness.  We  cannot,  when  we 
will,  vent  our  pugnacity  on  those  who  have  provoked  it;  we 
cannot  be  ruthlessly  self-assertive  in  a  group;  or  gratify  our 
native  acquisitiveness  by  appropriating  anything  and  every- 
thing within  our  reach. 

But  because  there  are  all  these  social  forces  making  for  the 
repression  of  instincts,  it  does  not  mean  that  these  latter 
therefore  disappear.  If  any  one  of  them  is  unduly  repressed, 
it  does  not  simply  vanish  as  a  driving  force  in  human  behav- 


24  HUMAN  TRAITS 

ior.  It  will  make  its  enduring  presence  felt  in  roundabout 
ways,  or  in  sudden  extreme  and  violent  outbursts.  Or,  if  it 
cannot  find  even  such  sporadic  or  fruitive  fulfillments,  "a 
balked  disposition"  will  leave  the  individual  with  an  uneasi- 
ness and  irritation  that  may  range  from  mere  pique  to  serious 
forms  of  morbidity  and  hysteria.  A  man  may  for  eight  or  ten 
hours  be  kept  repeating  the  same  operation  at  a  machine  hi  a 
factory.  He  may  thereby  repress  those  native  desires  for 
companionship  and  for  variety  of  reaction  which  constitute 
his  biological  inheritance.  But  too  often  postponed  satisfac- 
tion takes  the  violent  form  of  lurid,  over-exciting  amuse- 
ments and  dissipation.  The  suppression  of  the  sex  instinct 
not  infrequently  results  in  a  morbid  pruriency  in  matters  of 
sex,  a  distortion  of  all  other  interests  and  activities  by  a  pre- 
occupation with  the  frustrated  sex  motive.  Assaults  and 
lynchings,  and  the  whole  calendar  of  crimes  of  violence  with 
which  our  criminal  courts  are  crowded,  are  frequent  evidence 
of  the  incompleteness  with  which  man's  strong  primary  in- 
stincts have  been  suppressed  by  the  niceties  of  civilization. 
The  phenomenal  outburst  of  collective  vivacity  and  exuber- 
ance which  marked  the  reported  signing  of  the  armistice  at 
the  close  of  the  Great  War  was  a  striking  instance  of  those 
immense  primitive  energies  which  the  control  and  discipline 
of  civilization  cannot  altogether  repress. 

There  has  been,  furthermore,  a  great  deal  of  evidence  ad- 
duced in  recent  years  by  students  of  abnormal  psychology 
concerning  the  results  of  the  frustration  of  native  desires. 
When  the  individual  is  "balked"  hi  respect  to  particular  im- 
pulses or  desires,  these  may  take  furtive  and  obscure  fulfill- 
ments; they  may  play  serious  though  obscure  and  unnoticed 
havoc  with  a  man's  whole  mental  life.  Unfulfilled  desires 
may  give  rise  to  various  forms  of  "complex,"  distortions  of 
thought,  action,  and  emotion  of  which  the  individual  himself 
may  be  unaware.  They  may  make  a  man  unduly  sensitive, 
or  fearful,  or  pugnacious.  He  may,  for  example,  cover  up  a 
sense  of  mortification  at  failure  by  an  unwarranted  degree  of 


INSTINCT,  HABIT,  AND  EMOTION  35 

bluster  and  brag.  A  particular  baffling  of  desire  may  be 
compensated  by  a  bitterness  against  the  whole  universe  or  by 
a  melancholy  of  whose  origin  the  victim  may  be  quite  uncon- 
scious. These  maladjustments  between  an  individual's  de- 
sires and  his  satisfactions  are  certainly  responsible  for  a  con- 
siderable degree  of  that  irritation  and  neurasthenia  which  are 
so  frequently  observable  in  normal  individuals.1 

The  facts  enumerated  above  should  make  it  clear  why  it  is 
difficult  to  modify,  much  less  completely  to  overcome,  these 
strong  original  drives  to  action.  They  serve  to  emphasize 
the  fact  that  by  control  of  instinctive  responses  is  not  meant 
their  suppression.  For  just  as  instinctive  tendencies  are  our 
basic  instruments  of  action,  so  instinctive  desires  are  our 
basic  ingredients  of  happiness.  Just  as  all  we  can  do  is  lim- 
ited by  the  mechanisms  with  which  we  are  endowed,  so  what 
we  want  is  ultimately  determined  by  the  native  desires  with 
which  we  are  born.  The  control  of  action  and  of  desire  is 
justified  in  so  far  as  such  control  will  the  more  surely  promote 
a  harmonious  satisfaction  of  all  our  desires.  A  society  whose 
arrangements  are  such  that  instincts  are,  on  the  whole,  being 
repressed  rather  than  stimulated  and  satisfied,  is  frustrating 
happiness  rather  than  promoting  it.  At  the  very  least,  a  We 
whose  natural  impulses  are  not  being  fulfilled  is  a  life  of  bore- 
dom. The  ennui -which  is  so  often  and  so  conspicuously  asso- 
ciated with  the  routine  and  desolate  "gayeties"  of  society, 
the  listlessness  of  those  bored  with  their  work  or  their  play,  or 
both,  are  symptoms  of  social  conditions  where  the  native  en- 
dowments of  man  are  handicaps  rather  than  assets,  dead 
weights  rather  than  motive  forces.  It  means  that  society  is 
working  against  rather  than  with  the  grain.  Discontent, 
ranging  from  mere  pique  and  irritability  to  overt  violence,  is 

1  While  the  evidence  in  this  field  has  been  taken  largely  from  extremely 
pathological  cases,  the  distortions  and  perversions  of  mental  behavior, 
noticeable  in  such  cases,  are  simply  extreme  forms  of  the  type  of  distortion 
that  takes  place  in  the  case  of  normal  individuals  whose  desires  are  seriously 
frustrated.  See  the  very  clear  statement  on  tho'subject  of  " repressions ** 
and  "conflicts"  in  R.  B.  Hart's  Psychology  of  Insanity. 


26  HUMAN  TRAITS 

the  penalty  tnat  is  likely  to  be  paid  by  a  society  the  majority 
of  whose  members  are  chronically  prevented  from  satisfying 
their  normal  human  desires.  No  one  who  has  seen  whole 
lives  immeasurably  brightened  by  the  satisfaction  of  a  suita- 
ble employment,  or  melancholy  and  irritability  removed  by 
companionship  and  stimulating  surroundings,  can  fail  to 
realize  how  important  it  is  to  happiness  that  human  instincts 
be  given  generous  opportunity  for  fulfillment. 

One  may  say,  indeed,  that  the  evils  of  too  complete  repres- 
sion of  individual  impulses  are  more  than  that  they  produce 
nervous  strain,  dissatisfaction,  and,  not  infrequently,  crime. 
Happiness,  as  Aristotle  long  ago  pointed  out,  is  a  complete 
living-out  of  all  a  man's  possibilities.  It  is  most  in  evidence 
when  people  are,  as  we  say,  doing  what  they  like  to  do.  And 
people  like  to  do  that  which  they  are  prompted  to  do  by  the 
nature  which  is  their  inheritance.  Freshness,  originality,  and 
spontaneity  are  perhaps  particularly  valued  in  our  own  civili- 
zation because  of  the  multiple  restraints  of  business  and  pro- 
fessional occupations.  Even  under  the  most  perfect  social 
arrangements  there  will  always  exist  among  men  conflicts  of 
desire.  Their  control  over  their  environment  will,  of  neces- 
sity, be  imperfect,  as  will  their  mastery  of  their  own  passions 
and  their  clear  adjustment  to  one  another.  That  complete 
agreement  between  man's  desires  and  the  environment  in 
which  alone  they  can  find  their  satisfaction  remains  at  best  an 
ideal.  But  it  is  an  ideal  which  indicates  clearly  the  function 
of  control.  This  is  obviously  not  to  crush  native  desires,  but 
to  organize  their  harmonious  f ulfillment.  Where  men  have 
an  opportunity  to  utilize  their  native  gifts  they  will  be  satis- 
fied and  interested;  where  native  capacities  and  desires  are 
continually  balked,  men  will  be  discontented  though  well- 
regimented  machines. 

Habitual  behavior.  Except  for  purposes  of  analysis,  life  on 
the  purely  instinctive  level  may  be  said  scarcely  to  exist  in 
contemporary  society,  or  for  that  matter,  since  the  begin- 
nings of  recorded  history.  As  has  been  already  pointed  out, 


INSTINCT,  HABIT,  AND  EMOTION  27 

while  men  are  born  with  an  even  wider  variety  of  tendencies 
to  act  than  animals,  these  are  much  more  plastic  and  modifia- 
ble, more  susceptible  of  training,  and  much  more  hi  need  of  it 
than  those  of  the  sub-human  forms.  Even  among  animals 
under  conditions  of  domestication,  instinct  tends  largely  to  be 
replaced  by  habitual  or  acquired  modes  of  behavior.  The 
human  being,  born  with  a  nervous  system  and  a  brain  in  ex- 
tremely unformed  and  plastic  condition,  is  so  susceptible  to 
every  influence  current  in  his  environment  that  most  of  his 
actions  within  a  few  years  after  birth  are,  when  they  are  not 
the  result  of  deliberate  reflection,  secondary  or  habitual  rather 
than  genuinely  instinctive.  That  is,  few  of  the  simplest  ac- 
tions of  human  beings  are  not  hi  some  degree  modified  by  ex- 
perience. They  may  appear  just  as  automatic  and  immediate 
as  if  they  were  instinctive,  and  indeed  they  are,  but  they  are 
learned  ways  rather  than  the  unlearned  ways  man  has  as  his 
possession  at  birth. 

*  The  mechanism  of  habit.  The  implications  of  habitual  be- 
havior can  better  be  understood  after  a  brief  analysis  of  the 
mechanism  of  such  action.  An  instinct  has  been  defined  as  a 
tendency  to  act  in  a  given  way  in  response  to  a  given  stimu- 
lus. What  happens  when  a  stimulus  prompts  the  organism 
to  respond  hi  a  given  way,  is  that  some  sensory  nerve,  whether 
of  taste  or  touch  or  sound,  sight,  smell,  or  muscular  sensitiv- 
ity, receives  a  stimulus  which  passes  through  the  spinal  cord 
to  a  motor  nerve  through  which  some  muscle  is  "innervated" 
and  a  response  made.  In  the  simplest  type  of  reflex  action, 
such  as  the  winking  of  an  eye  in  a  blinding  light,  or  the  with- 
drawing of  a  hand  from  flame,  such  is  the  physiology  of  the 
process.  But  where  an  immediate  adjustment  cannot  be 
made  by  an  instinctive  response,  where  satisfaction  is  not  se- 
cured by  the  passage  of  a  sensory  stimulus  to  an  immediate 
motor  response,  the  nervous  impulse  is,  as  it  were,  deflected 
to  the  brain  area,  auditory,  visual,  or  whatever  it  may  be, 
which  is  associated  with  that  particular  type  of  sensation. 
The  path  to  the  brain  area  is  far  from  simple;  the  nervous  im- 


28  HUMAN  TRAITS 

pulse,  which  might  be  compared  to  an  electric  current,  must 
pass  through  many  nerve  junctions  known  as  "synapses,"  at 
which  points  there  is  some  not  completely  understood  chemi- 
cal resistance  offered  to  the  passage  of  the  nerve  current.  On 
passing  through  the  network  of  nerves  in  the  brain  area,  the 
current  passes  back  again  thro/ugh  a  complicated  maze  of  con- 
nections to  a  motor  nerve  which  insures  a  muscular  response. 
The  first  time  a  stimulus  passes  through  this  network  the  re- 
sistance offered  at  the  nerve  junction  or  synapse  is  very  high; 
at  succeeding  repetitions  of  the  stimulus  the  resistance  is  re- 
duced, the  nerve  current  passes  more  rapidly  and  fluently 
over  the  paths  it  has  already  traveled,  and  the  action  result- 
ing becomes  as  direct  and  automatic  as  if  it  were  an  original 
reflex  action.1 

The  acquisition  of  new  modes  of  response.  Expressed  in 
less  technical  language  this  means  simply  that  human  beings 
can  learn  by  experience,  and  that  they  tend  to  repeat  actions 
they  have  once  learned.  Where  an  animal  is  perfectly  ad- 
justed to  its  environment,  all  stimuli  issue  in  immediate  and 
nicely  adjusted  responses.  This  happens  only  where  the  en- 
vironment is  very  simple  and  stable,  and  where  in  conse- 
quence no  complexity  of  structure  or  action  is  necessary.  In 
the  clam  and  the  oyster,  and  in  some  of  the  lower  verte- 
brates, perhaps,  instinctive  activity  is  almost  exclusively 
present.  But  in  the  case  of  man,  so  complicated  are  the  situ- 
ations to  which  he  is  exposed  that  random  instinctive  re- 
sponses will  not  solve  his  problems.  He  must,  as  with  his 
highly  modifiable  nervous  system  he  can,  acquire  new  modes 
of  response  which  will,  in  the  complexity  of  new  situations 
serve  as  effectively  as  his  original  tendencies  to  act  would 
serve  him  in  a  simpler  and  stabler  environment.  A  human 
being  in  a  modern  city  cannot  live  by  instinct  alone;  he  must 
acquire  an  enormous  number  of  habits  to  meet  the  variety  of 
complex  situations  he  meets  in  daily  life.  A  monkey  exists 
with  fairly  fixed  native  tendencies  to  act.  But  civilization 

1  See  McDougall:  Physiological  Psychology. 


INSTINCT,  HABIT,  AND  EMOTION  29 

could  never  have  developed  if  in  man  new  ways  could  not  be 
acquired  to  meet  new  situations,  and  if  these  new  ways  could 
not  be  retained  and  made  habitual  in  the  individual  and  the 
race. 

Trial  and  error  and  deliberate  learning.  Whenever,  as 
happens  a  large  number  of  tunes  daily  in  the  life  of  the  aver- 
age man,  old  ways  of  response,  inborn  or  formerly  acquired, 
are  inadequate  to  meet  a  new  situation,  there  are  two  methods 
of  acquiring  a  new  and  more  adequate  response.  One  is  the 
method  of  trial  and  error,  already  discussed,  whereby  animals 
and  humans  try  every  possible  instinctive  response  to  a  situa- 
tion until  one  brings  satisfaction  and  is  retained  as  a  habitual 
reaction  when  that  situation  recurs.  The  other  is  a  delay  in 
response,  during  which  delay  reflection,  a  consideration  of 
possible  alternatives,  and  a  conscious  decision,  take  place. 
The  technique  of  this  latter  process  will  be  discussed  more 
specifically  in  the  next  chapter. 

Whether  acquired  by  trial  and  error,  or  through  reflection, 
learned  acts  are,  the  first  time  they  are  performed,  frequently 
imperfect,  only  partly  effective,  and  performed  with  some 
difficulty.  With  successive  repetitions  their  performance 
becomes  more  rapid,  more  immediate,  and  more  adjusted  to 
the  specific  situation  to  be  met.  And  as  they  become  more 
familiar  responses  to  familiar  stimuli  they  cease  to  be  con- 
scious at  all.  They  are  performed  with  almost  as  little  diffi- 
culty or  attention  as  normal  breathing. 

Some  conditions  of  habit-formation.  The  acquisition  of 
habits  is  so  important  hi  the  education  of  human  beings  that 
the  conditions  under  which  they  can  be  acquired  and  made 
permanently  effective  have  been  closely  studied.  From  ex- 
periments certain  fundamental  conclusions  stand  out.  A 
habit  is  acquired  by  repetition,  and  the  "curves  of  learning" 
show  certain  recurrent  features.  In  the  first  few  repetitions 
of  an  acquired  activity,  there  is  progress  in  the  rapidity,  effec- 
tiveness, and  accuracy  with  which  the  response  is  made. 
There  is,  up  to  a  certain  point,  an  almost  vertical  rise  in  the 


30  HUMAN  TRAITS 

learning  curve.  After  varying  numbers  of  repetitions,  de- 
pending somewhat  on  the  particular  individual,  there  occur 
what  are  known  as  "plateaux,"  during  which  no  progress  in 
speed  or  accuracy  of  response  is  to  be  observed.  In  experi- 
ments with  the  learning  of  typewriting,  for  example,  it  has 
been  found  that  the  beginner  makes  rapid  progress  up  to  the 
point,  say,  where  he  can  write  fifty  words  a  minute  without 
error;  there  is  a  long  interval  not  infrequently  before  he  can 
raise  his  efficiency  to  the  point  of  writing  seventy  words  a 
minute  correctly.  Analogous  conditions  have  been  observed 
in  the  speed  with  which  the  sending  and  receiving  of  tele- 
graphic messages  is  learned.  These  "plateaux"  of  learning 
are  sometimes  to  be  accounted  for  by  muscular  fatigue.  Fre- 
quently there  is  actual  progress  in  learning  during  these  ap- 
parent intervals  of  marking  time.  Some  of  the  less  observ- 
able features  of  skill  in  performance  which  only  later  become 
overt  in  speed  and  accuracy  are  being  attained  during  these 
seemingly  profitless  and  discouraging  intervals.  Not  infre- 
quently hi  the  acquisition  of  skill  in  the  playing  of  tennis  or 
the  piano,  or  in  the  solution  of  mathematical  problems,  a 
decided  gain  in  skill  and  speed  comes  after  what  seems  to 
be  not  only  lack  of  progress  but  decided  backsliding.1  It  is 
this  which  led  William  James  to  quote  with  approval  the 
aphorism  that  one  learns  to  skate  in  summer  and  swim  in 
winter. 

Drill  versus  attentive  repetition  in  learning.  The  rapidity 
with  which  habits  may  be  acquired  and  the  permanency  with 
which  they  may  be  retained  depend  on  other  factors  than 
simply  that  of  repetition.  Mere  mechanical  drill  is  effective 
in  the  acquisition  of  simple  mechanical  habits.  The  most  at- 
tentive appreciation  of  the  proper  things  to  be  done  in  playing 
tennis  or  the  piano  will  not  by  itself  make  one  an  expert  in 
those  activities.  The  effective  responses  must  actually  be 
performed  in  order  that  the  appropriate  connections  within 
the  nervous  system  may  be  made,  and  may  become  habitual. 

1  Bee  Ladd  and  Wood  worth:  Physiological  Psychology,  pp.  542-92. 


INSTINCT,  HABIT,  AND  EMOTION  81 

A  habit  is  physiologically  nothing  but  a  certain  set  or  direc- 
tion given  to  paths  in  the  nervous  system.  These  paths  be- 
come fixed,  embedded,  and  ingrained  only  when  nerve  cur- 
rents pass  over  them  time  and  time  again. 

Mere  repetition,  on  the  other  hand,  will  not  suffice  in  the 
acquisition  of  complex  habits  of  action.  The  learning  of 
these  requires  a  deliberate  noting  and  appreciation  of  the 
significant  factors  in  the  performance  of  an  activity,  and  the 
consciously  chosen  repetition  of  these  in  succeeding  instances 
until  the  habit  is  well  fixed.  One  reason  why  animals  cannot 
be  taught  so  wide  a  variety  of  complex  habits  as  can  the  hu- 
man being  is  that  they  cannot  keep  their  attention  fixed  on 
successive  repetitions,  and  that  in  learning  they  literally  do 
not  know  what  they  are  doing.  They  cannot,  as  can  humans, 
break  up  the  activity  which  they  are  in  process  of  learning 
into  its  significant  factors,  and  attend  to  these  in  successive 
repetitions.  The  superiority  of  deliberate  learning  over  the 
brute  method  of  trial  and  error  consists  precisely  hi  that  the 
deliberate  and  attentive  learner  can  pick  out  the  important 
steps  of  any  process,  and  learn  rapidly  to  eliminate  random 
and  useless  features  of  his  early  performances  without  waiting 
to  have  the  right  way  "knocked  into  him"  by  experience. 
He  will  short-circuit  the  process  of  learning  by  choosing  ap- 
propriate responses  in  advance,  noting  how  they  may  be 
made  more  effective  and  discovering  methods  for  making 
them  so,  and  for  eliminating  useless,  random,  and  ineffective 
acts.  What  we  call  the  "capacity  to  learn"  is  evident  in 
marked  degree  where  there  is  alert  attention  to  the  steps  of 
the  process  in  successive  repetitions.  The  truth  in  the  asser- 
tion that  an  intelligent  man  will  shortly  outclass  the  merely 
automatically  skillful  in  any  occupation  or  profession  requir- 
ing training,  lies  not  in  any  mysterious  faculty,  but  in  the  pe- 
culiarly valuable  habit  of  attending  with  discriminating  inter- 
est to  any  process,  and  learning  it  thereby  with  vastly  more 
economical  rapidity.  Genius  may  be  more  than  what  one 
writer  described  it,  "a  painstaking  attention  to  detail";  but  a 


32  HUMAN  TRAITS 

painstaking  attention  to  the  meaning  and  bearing  of  details  it 
most  decidedly  is. 

Learning  affected  by  age,  fatigue,  and  health.  There  are 
certain  conditions  not  altogether  within  the  control  of  the  in- 
dividual which  affect  the  rapidity  with  which  habits  are 
acquired.  One  of  the  most  important  of  these  is  fatigue. 
Connections  among  the  fibers  that  go  to  make  up  the  nervous 
system  cannot  be  made  with  ease  and  rapidity  when  the  or- 
ganism is  fatigued.  At  such  tunes  there  seems  to  be  an  un- 
usually high  resistance  at  the  synapses  or  nerve  junctions 
(where  there  is  a  lowering  of  resistance  to  the  passage  of  a 
nerve  current  when  habits  are  easily  formed).  After  a  cer- 
tain point  of  fatigue,  whether  in  the  acquisition  of  motor  hab- 
its or  the  memorizing  of  information,  hi  which  the  process  is 
much  the  same,  the  rate  of  learning  is  much  slower  and  the 
degree  of  accuracy  much  less.  The  length  of  time  through 
which  habits  are  retained  when  acquired  during  a  state  of 
fatigue  is  also  much  less  than  under  a  more  healthy  and  resili- 
ent condition  of  the  organism. 

The  point  of  fatigue  varies  among  different  individuals  and 
in  consequence  the  conditions  of  habit-formation  vary.  But 
some  conditions  remain  constant.  For  instance,  in  experi- 
ments with  memory  tests  (memory  being  a  form  of  habit  in 
the  nervous  system),  material  memorized  in  the  morning 
seems  to  be  most  rapidly  acquired  and  most  permanently  re- 
tained. 

The  age  and  health  of  the  individual  also  are  important 
factors  in  the  capacity  to  learn,  or  habit-formation.  Condi- 
tions during  disease  are  similar  to  those  obtaining  during 
fatigue,  only  to  a  more  acute  degree.  The  toxins  and  poisons 
in  the  nervous  system  at  such  tunes  operate  to  prevent  the 
formation  of  new  habits  and  the  breaking  of  old  ones.  For 
while  the  synapses  (nerve  junctions)  may  offer  high  resistance 
to  the  passage  of  a  new  stimulus,  they  will  lend  themselves 
more  and  more  readily  to  the  passage  of  stimuli  by  which 
they  have  already  been  traversed. 


INSTINCT,  HABIT,  AND  EMOTION  33 

That  the  age  of  the  individual  should  make  a  vast  difference 
in  the  capacity  to  acquire  new  habits  and  to  modify  old  ones 
is  obvious  from  the  physiology  of  habit  already  described. 
When  the  brain  and  nervous  system  are  both  young,  there  are 
few  neural  connections  established,  and  the  organism  is  plastic 
to  all  stimuli.  As  the  individual  grows  older,  connections 
once  made  tend  to  be  repeated  and  to  be,  as  it  were,  uncon- 
sciously preferred  by  the  nervous  system.  The  capacity  to 
form  habits  is  most  pronounced  in  the  young  child  in  whose 
nervous  structure  no  one  action  rather  than  another  has  yet 
had  a  chance  to  be  ingrained.  The  more  connections  that  are 
made,  the  more  habits  that  are  acquired,  the  less,  in  a  sense, 
can  be  made.  For  the  organism  will  tend  to  repeat  those 
actions  to  which  it  has  previously  been  stimulated,  and  the 
more  frequently  it  repeats  them  the  more  frequently  it  will 
tend  to.  So  that,  as  William  James  pointed  out,  by  twenty- 
five  we  are  almost  literally  bundles  of  habits.  When  the 
majority  of  acts  of  life  have  become  routine  and  fixed,  it  is 
almost  impossible  to  acquire  new  ways  of  acting,  since  the 
acquisition  of  new  habits  seriously  interferes  with  the  old,  and 
old  habits  physiologically  stay  put. 

Habit  as  a  time-saver.  This  fact,  that  habits  can  be  ac- 
quired most  easily  early  in  life,  and  that  those  early  acquired 
become  so  fixed  that  they  are  almost  inescapable,  is  of  su- 
preme importance  to  the  individual  and  society.  It  is  in  one 
sense  a  great  advantage;  it  is  an  enormous  saver  of  time.  In 
the  famous  words  of  James: 

The  great  thing,  then,  in  all  education,  is  to  make  our  nervous  sys- 
tem our  ally  instead  of  our  enemy.  It  is  to  fund  and  capitalize  our 
acquisitions,  and  live  at  ease  upon  the  interest  of  the  fund.  For  this 
we  must  make  automatic  and  habitual,  as  early  as  possible,  as  many 
useful  actions  as  we  can,  and  guard  against  the  growing  into  ways 
that  are  likely  to  be  disadvantageous  to  us,  as  we  would  guard 
against  the  plague.  The  more  of  the  details  of  our  daily  life  we  can 
hand  over  to  the  effortless  custody  of  automatism,  the  more  our 
higher  powers  of  mind  will  be  set  free  for  their  own  proper  work. 
There  is  no  more  miserable  human  being  than  one  in  whom  nothing 


HUMAN  TRAITS 

is  habitual  but  indecision,  and  for  whom  the  lighting  of  every  cigar, 
the  drinking  of  every  cup,  the  time  of  rising  and  going  to  bed  every 
day,  and  the  beginning  of  every  bit  of  work,  are  subjects  of  express 
volitional  deliberation.  Full  half  the  time  of  such  a  man  goes  to  the 
deciding,  or  regretting,  of  matters  which  ought  to  be  so  ingrained  in 
him  as  practically  not  to  exist  for  his  consciousness  at  all.  If  there 
be  such  daily  duties  not  yet  ingrained  in  any  one  of  my  readers,  let 
him  begin  this  very  hour  to  set  the  matter  right.1 

The  ideal  of  efficiency  is  the  ideal  of  having  the  effective 
thing  habitually  done  with  as  little  effort  and  difficulty  as 
possible.  This  in  the  case  of  human  beings  is,  as  James  points 
out,  attained  when  good  habits  are  early  acquired  and  when 
as  large  a  proportion  as  possible  of  purely  routine  activity  is 
made  effortless  and  below  the  level  of  consciousness.  To  do 
as  many  things  as  possible  without  thinking  is  to  free  thinking 
for  new  situations.  Our  experiences  would  be  very  restricted 
indeed  if  we  could  not  reduce  a  large  portion  of  the  things  we 
do  to  the  mechanics  of  habit.  Walking,  eating,  these,  though 
partly  instinctive,  were  once  problems  requiring  thought, 
effort,  and  attention.  If  we  had  to  spend  all  our  lives  learn- 
ing to  dress  and  undress,  to  find  OUT  way  about  our  own  house 
or  city,  to  spell  and  to  pronounce  correctly,  it  is  clear  how  lit- 
tle variety  and  diversity  we  should  ever  attain  in  our  lives. 
By  the  time  we  are  twenty  these  fundamental  habits  are  so 
firmly  fixed  in  us  that,  for  better  or  for  worse,  they  are  ours 
for  life,  and  we  are  free  to  give  our  attention  to  other  things. 
Again  in  the  words  of  James: 

We  all  of  us  have  a  definite  routine  manner  of  performing  certain 
daily  offices  connected  with  the  toilet,  with  the  opening  and  shutting 
of  familiar  cupboards,  and  the  like.  Our  lower  centers  know  the 
order  of  these  movements,  and  show  their  knowledge  by  their  "sur- 
prise" if  the  objects  are  altered  so  as  to  oblige  the  movement  to  be 
made  in  a  different  way.  But  our  higher  thought  centers  know 
hardly  anything  about  the  matter.  Few  men  can  tell  off-hand 
which  sock,  shoe,  or  trousers-leg  they  put  on  first.  They  must  first 
mentally  rehearse  the  act;  and  even  that  is  often  insufficient  —  the 
act  must  be  performed.  So  of  the  questions,  Which  valve  of  my 

1  James:  Psychology,  vol.  i,  p.  122. 


INSTINCT,  HABIT,  AND  EMOTION  35 

double  door  opens  first?  Which  way  does  my  door  swing?  etc.  I 
cannot  tell  the  answer;  yet  my  hand  never  makes  a  mistake.  No 
one  can  describe  the  order  in  which  he  brushes  his  hair  or  teeth;  yet 
it  is  likely  that  the  order  is  a  pretty  fixed  one  in  all  of  us.1 

Habit  as  a  stabilizer  of  action.  Habit  not  only  thus  saves 
time,  but  stabilizes  action,  and  where  the  habits  acquired  are 
effective  ones,  this  is  invaluable.  Habits  of  prompt  perform- 
ance of  certain  daily  duties  on  the  part  of  the  individual  are  a 
distinct  benefit  both  to  him  and  to  others,  as  certain  custom- 
ary efficient  office  practices,  when  they  are  really  habitual,  im- 
mensely facilitate  the  operation  of  a  business.  On  a  larger 
scale  habit  is  "society's  most  precioXis  conservative  agent." 
Individuals  not  only  develop  personal  habits  of  dress,  speech, 
etc.,  but  become  habituated  to  social  institutions,  to  certain 
occupations,  to  the  prestige  attaching  to  some  types  of  action 
and  the  punishment  correlated  with  others.  Education  in 
the  broadest  sense  is  simply  the  acquisition  of  those  habits 
which  adapt  an  individual  to  his  social  environment.  It  is 
the  instrument  society  uses  to  hand  down  the  habits  of  think- 
ing, feeling,  and  action  which  characterize  a  civilization.  So- 
ciety is  protected  from  murder,  theft,  and  pillage  by  law  and 
the  police,  but  it  is  even  better  protected  by  the  fact  that  liv- 
ing together  peacefully  and  cooperatively  is  for  most  adults 
habitual.  In  a  positive  sense  the  multifarious  occupations 
and  professions  of  a  great  modern  city  are  carried  on  from 
day  to  day  in  all  their  accustomed  detail,  not  because  the 
lawyers,  the  business  men,  the  teachers,  who  practice  them 
continuously  reason  them  out,  nor  from  continuous  instinc- 
tive promptings.  They  are  striking  testimony  to  the  influ- 
ence of  habit.  As  a  recent  English  writer  puts  it: 

The  population  of  London  would  be  starved  in  a  week  if  the  fly- 
wheel of  habit  were  removed,  if  no  signalman  or  clerk  or  policeman 
ever  did  anything  which  was  not  suggested  by  a  first-hand  impulse, 
or  if  no  one  were  more  honest  or  punctual  or  industrious  than  he  was 
led  to  be  by  his  conscious  love,  on  that  particular  day,  for  his  master 

i  James:  loc.  tit.,  vol.  I,  p.  115.    . 


36  HUMAN  TRAITS 

or  for  his  work,  or  by  his  religion,  or  by  a  conviction  of  danger  from 
the  criminal  law.1 

From  etiquette  and  social  distinction,  from  formalities  of 
conversation  and  correspondence,  of  greeting  and  farewell,  of 
condolence  and  congratulation  to  the  most  important  "cus- 
toms of  the  country,"  with  respect  to  marriage,  property,  and 
the  like,  ways  of  acting  are  maintained  by  the  mechanism  of 
habit  rather  than  by  arbitrary  law  or  equally  arbitrary  in- 
stinctive caprice. 

Disserviceable  habits  in  the  individual.  Habitual  behavior 
which  can  become  so  completely  controlling  in  the  lives  of  so 
many  people  is  not  without  its  dangers.  The  nervous  system 
is  originally  neutral,  and  can  be  involved  on  the  side  either  of 
good  or  evil.  A  human  born  with  a  plastic  brain  and  nervous 
system  must  acquire  habits,  but  that  he  will  acquire  good  hab- 
its (that  is,  habits  serviceable  to  his  own  happiness  and  to 
that  of  his  fellows)  is  not  guaranteed  by  nature.  Habits  are 
indeed  more  notorious  than  famous,  and  examples  are  more 
frequently  chosen  from  evil  ones  than  from  good.  Prompt- 
ness in  the  performance  of  one's]  professional  or  domestic  du- 
ties, care  in  speech,  in  dress  and  in  demeanor,  are,  once  they 
are  acquired,  permanent  assets.  But  if  these  fail  to  be  de- 
veloped, dishonesty  or  superficiality,  slovenliness  in  dress  and 
speech,  and  surliness  in  manner,  may  and  do  become  equally 
habitual.  The  significance  of  this  has  been  eloquently  stated 
at  the  close  of  James's  famous  discussion: 

The  hell  to  be  endured  hereafter,  of  which  theology  tells,  is  no 
worse  than  the  hell  we  make  for  ourselves  in  this  world  by  habitually 
fashioning  our  characters  in  the  wrong  way.  Could  the  young  but 
realize  how  soon  they  will  become  mere  walking  bundles  of  habits, 
they  would  give  more  heed  to  their  conduct  while  in  the  plastic  state. 
We  are  spinning  our  own  fates,  good  or  evil,  and  never  to  be  undone. 
Every  smallest  stroke  of  virtue  or  of  vice  leaves  its  never-so-little 
scar.  The  drunken  Rip  Van  Winkle,  in  Jefferson's  play,  excuses 
himself  for  every  fresh  dereliction  by  saying,  "I  won't  count  this 
time!','  Well,  he  may  not  count  it,  and  a  kind  Heaven  may  not 
1  Graham  Wallas:  Great  Society,  p.  74. 


INSTINCT,  HABIT,  AND  EMOTION  37 

count  it,  but  it  is  being  counted  none  the  less.  Down  among  his 
nerve  cells  and  fibres,  the  molecules  are  counting  it,  registering  and 
storing  it  up  to  be  used  against  him  when  the  next  temptation  comes. 
Nothing  we  ever  do  is,  in  strict  scientific  literalness,  wiped  out.1 

Social  inertia.  If  the  acquisition  of  bad,  that  is,  disservice- 
able  habits,  is  disastrous  to  the  individual,  it  is  in  some  re- 
spects even  worse  in  the  group.  The  inertia  of  the  nervous 
system,  the  tendency  to  go  on  repeating  connections  that 
have  once  been  made  is  one  of  the  strongest  obstacles  to 
change,  however  desirable.  It  is  not  only  that  habits  of  ac- 
tion have  been  established,  but  that  with  them  go  deep-seated 
habits  of  thought  and  feeling.  The  repression  of  people's 
accustomed  ways  of  doing  things  may  bring  with  it  a  sense  of 
frustration  almost  as  complete  and  painful  as  if  these  ob- 
structed activities  were  instinctive.  This  is  not  true  merely 
in  the  melodramatic  instances  of  drug  addicts  and  drunkards. 
It  is  true  in  the  case  of  social  habits  which  have  become  estab- 
lished in  a  large  group.  Any  Utopian  that  dreams  of  revolu- 
tionizing society  overnight  fails  to  take  into  account  the 
enormous  control  of  habits  over  groups  which  have  acquired 
them,  and  the  powerful  emotions,  amounting  sometimes  to 
passion,  which  are  aroused  by  their  frustration. 

The  importance  of  the  learning  habit.  That  habit  is  at 
once  the  conserver  and  the  petrifier  of  society  has  long  been 
recognized  by  social  philosophers.  There  is  one  habit,  how- 
ever, the  acquisition  of  which  is  itself  a  preventive  of  the  com- 
plete domination  of  the  individual  or  the  group  by  hard  and 
fast  routine.  This  is  the  habit  of  learning,  which  is  necessary 
to  the  acquisition  of  any  habits  at  all.  Man  in  learning  new 
habits,  "learns  to  learn."  This  ability  to  learn  is,  of  course, 
correlated  with  a  plasticity  of  brain  and  nerve  fiber  which  is 
most  present  in  early  youth.  The  disappearance  of  this  ca- 
pacity is  hastened  by  the  pressure  which  forces  individuals  in 
their  business  and  professional  life  to  cling  fast  to  certain 
habits  which  are  prized  and  rewarded  by  the  group.  A  sedu- 

i  James:  loc.  oil.,  vol.  i,  p.  127. 


38  HUMAN  TRAITS 

lous  cultivation  on  the  part  of  the  individual  of  the  habit  of 
open-minded  inquiry,  of  the  habit  of  learning,  and  the  en- 
couragement of  this  tendency  by  the  group  are  the  only  anti- 
dotes that  can  be  provided  against  this  marked  physiological 
tendency  to  fossilization  and  the  frequent  social  tendencies  in 
the  same  direction.  ^ 

Whether  habits  shall  master  us,  or  whether  we  shall  be 
their  masters,  depends  also  on  the  method  by  which  they 
were  acquired.  If  they  were  learned  merely  through  mechan- 
ical drill,  they  will  be  fixed  and  rigid.  If  they  were  learned 
deliberately  to  meet  new  situations,  they  will  not  be  retained 
when  the  conditions  they  were  acquired  to  meet  are  utterly 
changed. 

^  The  specificity  of  habits.  One  important  consideration, 
finally,  that  must  be  brought  to  consideration  is  that  habits 
are,  like  instincts,  specific.  They  are  not  general  "open  ses- 
ames" which,  learned  in  one  situation,  will  apply  with  indis- 
criminate miraculousness  to  a  variety  of  others.  Just  as  an 
instinct  is  a  definite  response  to  a  definite  stimulus,  so  is  a 
habit.  The  chief  and  almost  only  observable  difference  is 
that  the  former  is  unlearned,  while  the  latter  is  learned  or 
acquired. 

But  while  habits  are  specific,  they  are  within  limits  trans- 
ferable. Such  is  the  case  when  a  situation  which  calls  out  a 
certain  habitual  response  is  paralleled  in  significant  points  by 
another.  Thus  the  situation,  one's-room-at-home-cluttered- 
up-with-a-miscellany-of-books-papers-tennis-apparatus-and- 
clothing,  has  sufficiently  similar  significant  points  to  the  situa- 
tion, one's-office-littered-with-documents-old-letters-manu- 
scripts-blueprints-and-proofs,  to  call  forth,  if  the  habit  has 
been  established  in  one  case,  the  identical  response  of  "tidy- 
ing up"  in  the  other.  But  unless  there  are  marked  points  of 
similarity  between  two  different  sets  of  circumstances,  specific 
habits  remain  specific  and  non-transferable.  There-  is  in  the 
laws  of  habit  no  guarantee  that  an  industrious  application  to 
the  batting  averages  of  the  major  league  on  the  part  of  an 


INSTINCT,  HABIT,  AND  EMOTION  39 

alert  twelve-year-old  will  provoke  the  same  assiduous  assimi- 
lation of  the  facts  of  the  American  Revolution;  that  a  boy 
who  works  hard  at  his  chemistry  will  work  equally  hard  at  his 
English,  or  that  one  who  is  careful  about  his  manners  and  pro- 
nunciation in  school  will  display  the  slightest  heed  to  them 
among  his  companions  on  the  ball-field.  One  of  the  most 
cogent  arguments  against  the  stereotyped  teaching  of  Latin 
and  Greek  has  been  the  serious  doubt  psychologists  have  held 
as  to  whether  four  years'  training  in  Latin  syntax  will  develop 
in  the  student  general  mental  habits  which  will  be  applicable 
or  useful  outside  the  Latin  classroom,  i^ 

The  older  "faculty"  psychologists  presumed  that  different 
subjects  trained  various  so-called  "faculties"  of  "memory," 
"imagination,"  and  "intellect."  It  has  now  become  clear  on 
experimental  evidence  that  in  education  we  are  training  no 
isolated  faculties,  but  are  training  the  individual  to  certain 
specific  habits.  The  more  widely  applicable  the  habits  are, 
obviously  the  more  valuable  or  dangerous  will  they  be  in  the 
conduct  of  life.  But  when  habits  do  become  general,  such  as 
a  habit  of  promptness,  honesty,  and  regularity,  not  in  one 
situation  but  "in  general,"  it  is  because  they  are  something 
more  than  habits  in  the  strict  physiological  sense.  They  are 
intellectual  as  well  as  merely  motor  in  character;  they  are 
deliberate  and  conscious  methods  rather  than  mechanical 
rules  of  thumb.  Habits  that  have  been  drilled  into  an  indi- 
vidual will  appear  only  when  the  situation  very  closely 
approximates  the  one  in  which  the  drill  has  been  performed. 
The  cat  that  has  learned  to  get  out  of  a  certain  type  of  cage 
by  pressing  a  button  will  be  utterly  at  a  loss  if  the  familiar 
features  of  the  cage  are  changed.  The  intelligent  human 
will  detect  and  take  pains  to  detect  among  the  minor  differ- 
ences of  the  situation  some  significant  fact  which  he  has  met 
in  another  setting,  and  he  will  apply  a  habit  useful  in  this  new 
situation  despite  the  slightly  changed  accompanying  circum- 
stances. The  man  who  can  drive  an  automobile  with  reflec- 
tive appreciation  of  the  processes  involved,  who  knows,  as 


40  HUMAN  TRAITS 

we  say,  what  he  is  doing,  will  not  long  be  baffled  by  a  car 
with  a  slightly  different  arrangement  of  levers  and  steering- 
gear,  nor  be  completely  frustrated  when  the  car  for  some 
reason  fails  to  move.  As  happened  in  many  notable  instances 
during  the  World  War,  trained  executives  were  not  long  at  a 
loss  when  they  shifted  from  the  management  of  a  steel  plant 
to  a  shipyard,  or  from  large-scale  mining  operations  in  Mon- 
tana to  large-scale  relief  work  in  Belgium. 

The  conscious  transference  of  habits.  When  habits  are 
consciously  acquired,  they  may  be  consciously  transferred 
with  modifications  to  situations  slightly  different  from  those 
in  which  they  were  first  learned.  Merely  mechanical  habits 
are  a  hindrance  in  any  save  the  most  mechanical  work.  An 
alert  and  conscious  method  of  learning,  which  means  the 
development  of  habits  as  methods  of  control,  will  enable  the 
individual  to  modify  habits  acquired  in  slightly  different  cir- 
cumstances to  new  situations  where  the  major  conditions  re- 
main the  same.  To  be  merely  habitual  is  to  be  at  best  an 
efficient  machine,  utterly  unable  to  do  anything  except  to  run 
along  certain  grooves,  to  respond  like  an  animal  trained  to 
certain  tricks.  It  means,  moreover,  a  loss  of  richness  in 
experience.  When  a  profession  becomes  routinated  it  be- 
comes meaningless;  a  mere  making  of  the  wheels  go  round. 
The  spirit  of  alert  and  conscious  inquiry  must  be  maintained 
if  life  is  not  to  become  a  mere  repeated  monotony. 

An  alert  and  conscious  adjustment  of  habits  to  a  changing 
environment  constitutes  intelligence.  The  technique  of  this 
adjustment  is  the  technique  of  thinking  or  of  reflective  be- 
havior, which  we  shall  examine  in  more  detail  in  the  follow- 
ing chapter. 

Emotion.  All  human  action,  whether  on  the  plane  of 
instinct,  habit,  or  reflection,  is,  to  a  lesser  or  greater  degree, 
accompanied  by  emotion.  While  there  is  considerable  con- 
troversy among  psychologists  as  to  the  precise  nature  of  emo- 
tion, and  the  precise  conditions  of  its  causation,  its  general 
features  and  significance  are  fairly  clear.  Emotion  may  be 


INSTINCT,  HABIT,  AND  EMOTION  41 

most  generally  defined  as  an  awareness  or  consciousness  on 
the  part  of  the  individual  of  his  experiences,  both  those  in 
which  he  is  the  actor  and  those  in  which  he  is  being  passively 
acted  upon.  This  awareness  or  consciousness  is  not  detached 
intellectual  perception,  but  is  accompanied  by,  as  it  is  by 
some  held  to  be  merely  the  consciousness  of,  certain  specific 
bodily  disturbances.  Thus  the  emotions  of  fear  and  grief 
are  not  cold  and  abstract  perceptions  of  situations  that  belong 
in  the  classes  dangerous  or  deplorable,  respectively.  The 
awareness  of  these  situations  by  the  individual  is  intimately 
and  invariably  connected  with  certain  outward  bodily  mani- 
festations and  certain  inner  organic  disturbances.  Fear,  rage, 
pity,  and  the  like  are  not  unimpassioned  judgments,  but 
highly  charged  physical  changes.  So  close,  indeed,  is  the  con- 
nection between  specific  bodily  conditions  and  the  subjective 
or  inner  consciousness  that  we  call  emotion,  that  James  and 
Lange  simultaneously  came  to  the  conclusion  that  emotions 
are  nothing  more  nor  less  than  the  blending  of  the  complex 
organic  changes  that  occur  in  any  given  emotional  state. 
Thus  James: 

What  kind  of  an  emotion  of  fear  would  be  left  if  the  feeling  neither 
of  quickened  heart-beats  nor  of  shallow  breathing,  neither  of  trem- 
bling lips  nor  of  weakened  limbs,  neither  of  goose-flesh  nor  of  vis- 
ceral stirrings,  were  present,  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  think.  Can 
anyone  fancy  the  state  of  rage,  and  picture  no  ebullition  in  the  chest, 
no  flushing  of  the  face,  no  dilation  of  the  nostrils,  no  clenching  of  the 
teeth,  no  impulse  to  vigorous  action,  but  in  their  stead  limp  muscles, 
calm  breathing,  and  a  placid  face?  The  present  writer,  for  one,  cer- 
tainly cannot.  The  rage  is  as  completely  evaporated  as  the  sensa- 
tions of  its  so-called  manifestations,  and  the  only  thing  that  can  pos- 
sibly be  supposed  to  take  its  place  is  some  cold  blooded  and  dispas- 
sionate j  udicial  sentence,  confined  entirely  to  the  intellectual  realm, 
to  the  effect  that  a  certain  person  or  persons  merit  chastisement  for 
their  sins.  In  like  manner  of  grief;  what  would  it  be  without  its 
tears,  its  sobs,  its  suffocation  of  the  heart,  its  pang  in  the  breast-bone? 
A  f  eelingless  cognition  that  certain  circumstances  are  deplorable,  and 
nothing  more.1 

1  James:  Psychology,  vol.  n,  p.  462. 


42  HUMAN  TRAITS 

Indeed,  so  completely  did  James  think  the  emotions  were 
explicable  as  the  inner  feeling  of  the  complex  organic  sensa- 
tions which  go  to  make  up  each  of  them  that  he  did  not  think 
it  misleading  to  say  "we  feel  sorry  because  we  cry,  angry 
because  we  strike,  afraid  because  we  tremble;  we  do  not  cry, 
strike,  or  tremble  because  we  are  sorry,  angry,  or  fearful,  as 
the  case  may  be." 

Whether  or  not  emotions  are  completely  to  be  explained 
as  the  inner  or  subjective  aspect  of  the  complex  of  organic 
disturbances  which  accompany  fear,  rage,  and  the  like,  and 
which  are  caused  immediately  by  the  perception  of  the  appro- 
priate objects  of  these  emotions,  it  is  certainly  true  that 
emotional  awareness  and  bodily  disturbances  are  very  closely 
connected.1 

Various  attempts  have  been  made  to  classify  the  emotions 
which  are,  in  ordinary  experience,  infinitely  subtle  and  com- 
plex. The  subtlety  and  variety  of  emotion  James  explains 
as  the  result  of  the  subtle  and  imperceptible  differences  in  the 
complex  of  sensations  which  occur  in  any  given  situation.  In 
general,  it  has  been  recognized  that  the  emotions  are  very 
closely  connected  with  the  primary  tendencies  of  man. 
McDougall,  for  example,  says  that  each  of  the  great  primary 
impulses  is  accompanied  by  an  emotion.  Indeed,  McDougall 
considers,  as  earlier  noted,  that  the  emotion  is  the  affective 
or  conscious  aspect  of  an  instinct  which,  at  the  same  time,  has 
a  perceptual  and  impulsive  aspect;  that,  in  the  case  of  fear, 
the  perceptual  aspect  is  the  instinctive  mechanism  for  recog- 

1  Recent  experiments  by  Dr.  Cannon  at  Harvard  have  shown  the  specific 
bodily  disturbances  which  accompany  anger,  fear,  etc.  In  particular,  Dr. 
Cannon,  and  others,  have  noted  that  in  the  emotional  conditions  of  fear  and 
anger  the  glands,  located  near  the  kidneys,  discharge  a  fluid  into  the  blood 
stream,  which  fluid  stimulates  the  heart  to  activity,  constricts  the  blood 
vessels  of  the  internal  organs,  causes  the  liver  to  pour  out  into  the  blood  its 
stores  of  sugar,  and  affects  in  one  way  or  another  all  the  organs  of  the  body. 
The  general  effect  is  to  put  the  body  into  a  state  of  preparedness  for  the 
activities  connected  with  the  emotion,  whether  flight  in  the  case  of  fear, 
attack  as  in  the  case  of  anger.  This  has  led  Professor  Woodworth  to  define 
emotion  as,  at  least  in  part,  "  the  way  the  body  feels  when  it  is  prepared  for  a 
certain  reaction.'!  See  the  latter's  Dynamic  Psychology,  pp.  51-59. 


INSTINCT,  HABIT,  AND  EMOTION  43 

nizing  objects  of  danger,  the  impulsive  aspect  is  the  tendency 
toward  flight,  and  the  affective  aspect  is  the  inner  feeling  or 
awareness  of  fear.  Thus,  for  McDougall,  the  tender  emotion 
is  the  emotional  aspect  of  the  instinct  of  pity,  anger  of  the 
instinct  of  pugnacity,  which  is,  as  an  impulse,  the  tendency 
to  strike  and  destroy. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  as  McDougall  himself  admits,  emo- 
tions are  seldom  experienced  in  unmixed  forms,  and  it  is  very 
difficult  to  reduce  the  infinite  variety  of  emotional  experiences 
to  any  primary  forms.  One  may  well  agree  with  James  that 
"subdivisions  [in  the  psychological  demarcation  of  the  emo- 
tions] are  to  a  great  extent  either  fictitious  or  unimportant, 
and  .  .  .  pretenses  to  accuracy,  a  sham."  In  general,  one 
may  say  that  emotions  are  closely  connected  with  the  native 
tendencies  of  human  beings  and  are  aroused  by  both  their 
fulfillment,  their  conflict,  and  their  frustration.  The  variety 
of  emotions  results  from  the  fact  that  no  single  one  of  our  in- 
stincts is  stimulated  at  a  time,  and  that  the  peculiar  specific 
quality  of  each  emotional  experience  is  due  to  the  specific 
point  of  conflict,  fulfillment,  or  frustration  in  each  particular 
case.  It  may  be  further  noted  that  those  emotions  are,  in 
general,  pleasantly  toned  which  accompany  the  fulfillment  or 
the  approach  to  the  fulfillment  of  a  native  disposition;  and 
those  are  unpleasantly  toned  which  accompany  their  frustra- 
tion or  conflict.  The  depth  and  intensity  of  the  emotional 
disturbance  seem  to  depend  on  the  degree  and  extent  to  which 
strong  instinctive  or  habitual  impulses  have  become  involved. 
For  as  habits  of  action  may  be  acquired,  so  also  may  emotions 
become  associated  habitually  with  them.  The  emotional 
disturbances  connected  with  the  fulfillment,  frustration,  and 
conflict  of  habits  may  be  just  as  intense  as  those  connected 
with  similar  phenomena  in  the  case  of  instincts. 

In  one  sense  these  emotional  disturbances  impede  action, 
certainly  action  on  the  reflective  level.  It  is  the  capacity 
and  function  of  reflection  to  solve  and  adjust  precisely  those 
conflicts  of  competing  impulses  during  which  emotional  dis- 


44  HUMAN  TRAITS 

turbances  occur.  But  the  reflective  process  is  confused  and 
distorted  in  conflicts  of  native  or  habitual  desires  by  these 
emotional  disturbances  which  accompany  them.  It  is  pro- 
verbially difficult  to  think  straight  when  angry;  the  surgeon 
in  performing  an  operation  must  not  be  moved  by  pity  or  fear; 
and  love  is  notoriously  blind.  J  The  facts  with  which  reflection 
must  deal  are  presented  in  distorted  and  exaggerated  form 
under  the  stress  of  competing  impulses.  Stimuli  become 
loaded  with  emotional  associations.  They  are  glaring  and 
conspicuous  on  the  basis  of  their  emotional  urgency  rather 
than  on  the  ground  of  their  logical  significance.  The  paraly- 
sis or  complete  disorganization  of  action  which  occurs  in 
extreme  cases  of  hysteria  takes  place  to  some  extent  in  all  less 
extreme  instances  of  emotional  disturbances. 

Emotions,  on  the  other  hand,  serve  to  sustain,  and,  in  their 
less  violent  form,  to  facilitate  action.  It  has  already  been 
noted  that  the  organic  disturbances  which  are  so  conspicuous 
a  feature  of  emotion  are  extremely  important  in  preparing  the 
body  for  the  overt  actions  in  which  these  emotions  always 
tend  to  issue.  And  it  is  unquestionable  that  emotions, 
though  in  more  or  less  obscure  ways,  call  up  reserves  of  energy 
in  the  service  of  the  activity  hi  connection  with  which  the 
emotion  has  been  aroused.  While  very  violent  emotions,  as 
in  the  case  of  extreme  anger  or  fear  or  pity,  confuse,  dis- 
organize, and  even  paralyze  action,  in  more  moderate  form 
they  rather  serve  to  stimulate  and  reinforce  it.  Emotions 
are,  in  many  cases,  merely  the  inner  or  subjective  awareness 
of  one  of  these  great  driving  forces,  or  a  complex  of  them. 
Anger,  pity,  and  fear,  in  their  less  extreme  forms,  pour  floods 
of  energy  into  the  activities  in  which  they  take  overt  expres- 
sion. It  needs  no  special  knowledge  to  recognize  the  fact 
that  the  normal  interests  and  enterprises  of  life  are  quickened 
and  sustained  when  some  great  emotional  drive  can  be  roused 
in  their  support.  Ambition,  loyalty,  love,  or  hate  may  stir 
men  to  and  sustain  them  in  long  and  difficult  enterprises 
which  they  would  neither  undertake  nor  continue  were  these 


INSTINCT,  HABIT,  AND  EMOTION  45 

motive  forces  removed.  The  soldier  does  not  fight  persist- 
ently and  well  wholly,  or  often  even  in  part,  because  he  has 
thought  out  the  situation  and  found  the  cause  of  his  country 
to  be  just.  He  is  stirred  and  sustained  by  the  energies  which 
the  emotional  complex  called  "patriotism"  has  roused  and 
concentrated  toward  action.  A  scientist  performing  long  and 
difficult  researches,  a  father  sacrificing  rest  and  comfort  that 
his  children  may  be  well  provided  for,  a  boy  working  to  pay 
his  way  through  college,  are  all  persisting  in  courses  of  ac- 
tion, because  of  the  driving  power  which  the  emotions,  more 
or  less  mixed,  of  curiosity,  or  tenderness,  or  self-assertion 
have  released. 

But  just  as  the  original  nature  with  which  man  is  born  is 
modifiable,  so  are  his  emotional  reactions.  Each  individual's 
emotional  reactions  are  peculiar  and  specific,  because  of  the 
particular  contacts  to  which  they  have  been  exposed,  and  the 
organization  of  instincts  and  habits  which  have  come  to  be 
then*  more  or  less  fixed  character.  Any  emotional  experience 
consists  of  an  intermingling  of  many  and  diverse  feelings. 
And  these  particular  complexes  of  emotions  become  for  each 
individual  organized  about  particular  persons  or  objects  or 
situations.  The  emotional  reactions  of  an  individual  are, 
indeed,  accurately  symptomatic  of  the  character  of  the  indi- 
vidual and  the  culture  of  his  time.  They  are  aroused,  it  goes 
without  saying,  on  very  different  occasions  and  by  very 
different  objects,  among  different  men  and  different  groups. 
In  the  sixteenth  century  pious  persons  could  watch  heretics 
being  burned  in  oil  with  a  sense  of  deep  religious  exaltation. 
Certain  Fijian  tribes  slaughter  then*  aged  parents  with  the 
most  tender  filial  devotion.  In  certain  savage  communities, 
to  eat  in  public  arouses  on  the  part  of  the  individual  a  sense 
of  acute  shame. 

Since  those  emotions  are,  on  the  whole,  pleasantly  toned 
which  accompany  the  fulfillment  of  instinctive  and  habitual 
impulses,  and  those  unpleasantly  toned  which  accompany 
their  frustration,  it  becomes,  as  Aristotle  pointed  out,  of  the 


46  HUMAN  TRAITS 

most  "serious  importance"  early  to  habituate  men  to  the 
performance  of  socially  useful  actions.  If  good  or  useful 
actions  are  early  made  habitual,  their  performance  will  bring 
pleasure,  and  will  thereby  be  better  insured  than  by  any 
amount  of  preaching  or  punishment.  If  the  actions  which 
the  group  approves  are  not  early  made  habitual  in  the  younger 
members  of  the  group,  they  will  not  be  enforced  either  through 
logic  or  electrocution.  It  is  not  enough  to  give  people  reasons 
for  doing  good,  they  will  only  do  it  consistently  if  the  opposite 
arouses  in  them  more  or  less  abhorrence.  People  learn  to 
modify  their  actions  on  the  basis  of  the  pleasure  or  pain  they 
find  in  their  performance,  and  the  pleasure  or  pain  they  will 
experience  depends  on  the  actions  to  which  they  are  habitu- 
ated and  the  emotions  which  have  come  to  be  their  character- 
istic accompaniments. 


CHAPTER  III 
REFLECTION 

Instinct  and  habit  versus  reflection.  In  the  two  types  of 
behavior  already  discussed,  man  is,  as  it  were,  "pushed  from 
behind."  In  the  case  of  instinct  he  performs  an  action  simply 
because  he  must  perform  it.  Willy-nilly  he  withdraws  his 
hand  from  fire,  eats  when  hungry,  and  sleeps  when  tired.  In 
the  case  of  habits,  once  they  are  acquired,  he  is  also  largely 
dominated  by  circumstances  beyond  his  own  control.  The 
bottle  is  to  the  confirmed  drunkard  almost  an  irresistible  com- 
mand to  drink,  the  alarm  clock  to  one  accustomed  to  it  an 
equally  imperative  and  not-to-be-disregarded  order  to  arise. 
The  story  of  the  old  veteran  who  was  carrying  home  his  dinner 
and  who  dropped  his  hands  to  his  side  and  his  dinner  to  the 
gutter  when  a  practical  joker  called  "  Attention  " ;  the  pathetic 
plight  of  the  superannuated  business  man  who  is  totally  at  a 
loss  away  from  his  familiar  duties,  are  often  quoted  illustra- 
tions of  how  completely  habit  may  determine  a  man's  actions. 

But  while  in  a  large  portion  of  our  daily  duties  we  are  thus 
at  the  beck  and  call  of  the  instincts  which  are  our  inheritance 
and  the  habits  which  we  have  acquired,  we  may  also  control 
our  actions.  Instead  of  performing  actions  as  immediate  and 
automatic  responses  to  accustomed  stimuli,  we  may  deter- 
mine our  actions,  single  or  consecutive,  in  the  light  of  absent 
and  future  results.  To  act  thus  is  to  act  reflectively,  and  to 
act  reflectively  is  the  only  escape  from  random  acts  prompted 
by  instinct  and  routine  ones  prompted  by  habit. 

To  act  reflectively  is  to  delay  response  to  an  instinctive  or 

habitual  stimulus  until  the  various  possibilities  of  action  and 

the  results  associated  with  each  have  been  considered.     An 

V      action  performed  instinctively  or  habitually  is  automatic;  it 

is  performed  not  on  the  basis  of  what  will  be  the  result,  but 


48  HUMAN  TRAITS 

simply  as  an  immediate  response  to  a  present  stimulus.  But 
an  act  (or  a  series  of  acts)  reflectively  performed  is  performed 
in  the  light  of  the  results  that  are  prophetically  associated 
with  them.  In  the  case  of  instinct  and  habit,  the  individual 
almost  literally  does  not  know  what  he  is  about.  In  reflective 
activity  he  does  know,  and  the  more  thorough  the  reflective 
process,  the  more  thorough  and  precise  is  his  knowledge.  He 
performs  actions  because  they  will  achieve  certain  results,  and 
he  is  conscious  of  that  causal  connection,  both  before  the 
action  is  performed  when  he  perceives  the  results  imagina- 
tively, and  after  it  is  performed  when  he  sees  them  in  fact. 

The  origin  and  nature  of  reflection.  Reflection,  it  must  be 
noted  in  the  first  place,  is  not  a  thing,  but  a  process.  It  is  a 
process  whereby  human  beings  adjust  themselves  to  a  con- 
tinuously changing  environment.  Our  instincts  and  habits 
suffice  to  adapt  us  to  that  large  number  of  recurrent  similar 
situations  of  which  our  experience  in  no  small  measure  exists. 
In  such  cases  the-habitual  response  will  bring  the  usual  satis- 
faction. Walking,  dressing,  getting  to  familiar  places,  find- 
ing the  electric  button  in  well-known  rooms,  opening  often- 
opened  combinations  —  these  operations  are  all  adequately 
accomplished  by  the  fixed  mechanisms  of  habit.  But  we 
meet  as  frequently  with  novel  situations  where  the  accus- 
tomed or  instinctive  reactions  will  not  bring  the  desired  satis- 
faction. One  response  or  a  number  of  responses  will  not 
adjust  the  individual  satisfactorily  to  external  conditions;  or 
there  may  be  a  conflict  between  a  number  of  impulses  all 
clamoring  for  satisfaction  at  once.  Reflection  thus  begins 
either  hi  a  maladjustment  between  the  individual  and  his 
environment  or  hi  a  conflict  of  impulses  within  the  same 
person. 

Where  such  a  maladjustment  occurs,  the  uneasiness,  dis- 
comfort, and  frustration  of  action  may  be  removed  in  one  of 
two  ways.  Adjustment  may  be  achieved,  as  we  have  already 
seen,  through  physical  trial  and  error,  through  a  hit-and-miss 
experimentation  with  every  possible  response  until  the  appro- 


REFLECTION  49 

priate  one  is  made.  This  is  the  only  way  in  which  animals 
can  learn  to  modify  their  instinctive  tendencies  into  habits 
more  adequate  to  their  conditions.  The  more  economical 
and  effective  process,  one  peculiar  to  human  beings,  is  that 
of  reflection.  To  think  or  to  reflect  means  to  postpone  re- 
sponse to  a  given  problematic  situation  until  the  possible  con- 
sequences of  the  possible  responses  have  been  mentally  traced 
out.  Instead  of  actually  making  every  response  that  occurs 
to  us,  we  make  all  of  them  imaginatively.  Instead  of  consum- 
ing time  and  energy  in  physical  trial  and  error,  we  go  through 
the  process  of  mental  trial  and  error.  We  make  no  response 
at  all  hi  action  until  we  have  surveyed  all  the  possibilities  of 
action  and  their  possible  consequences.  And  when  we  do 
make  a  response  we  make  it  on  the  basis  of  those  foreseen 
consequences.1 

In  other  words,  the  situation  is  analyzed.  What  is  the  end 
or  adjustment  sought,  what  are  the  possible  responses,  and 
how  far  is  each  of  them  suited  as  a  means  to  achieving  the 
satisfaction  sought?  Instead  of  going  through  every  random 
course  of  action  that  suggests  itself,  each  one  is  "  dramatically 
rehearsed."  Finally,  that  response  is  made  which  gives  most 
promise  in  terms  of  its  prophesied  consequences  of  adjusting 
us  to  our  situation. 

Illustration  of  the  reflective  process.  A  student  may,  for 
example,  be  seated  at  his  study,  preparing  for  an  examina- 
tion. A  friend  enters  and  suggests  going  for  a  walk  or  to  the 
theater.  If  the  student  were  to  follow  this  first  immediate 
impulse  he  would,  before  he  realized  it,  be  off  for  an  eve- 
ning's entertainment.  But  instead  of  responding  immediately, 
dropping  his  books,  reaching  for  his  hat,  opening  the  door, 
and  ringing  for  the  elevator  (a  series  of  habitual  acts  initiated 
by  the  instinctive  desire  for  rest,  variety,  and  companion- 

1  The  possibilities  of  response  that  do  occur  to  us  ar«,  on  the  whole,  deter- 
mined by  past  training  and  native  differences  in  temperament.  But  part  of 
the  process  of  reflection  is,  as  we  shall  see  in  the  chapter  on  "Science  and 
Scientific  Method,"  concerned  with  deliberately  enlarging  the  field  of  pos- 
sible responses  in  the  solution  of  a  given  problem. 


50  .HUMAN  TRAITS 

ship),  he  may  rehearse  in  imagination  the  various  possibilities 
of  action.  In  general  terms,  what  happens  is  simply  this: l 
On  the  one  hand,  the  gregarious  instinct,  the  desire  for  rest, 
native  curiosity,  and  an  acquired  interest  in  drama  may 
prompt  him  strongly  to  go  to  the  theater.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  habits  of  industry,  ambition,  self-assertion,  and 
studying  hi  the  evening  urge  him  to  stay  at  home  and  study. 
The  first  course  of  action  may,  for  the  moment,  be  immedi- 
ately attractive  and  stimulating.  But  instead  of  responding 
to  either  immediately,  the  student  rehearses  dramatically  the 
possibilities  associated  with  each.  On  the  one  hand  are  the 
immediate  satisfactions  of  rest,  amusement,  and  companion- 
ship. But  as  further  consequences  of  the  impulse  to  go  out 
to  the  theater  are  seen  —  or,  rather,  are  foreseen  —  failure  in 
the  examination,  the  loss  of  a  scholarship,  pain  to  one's  family 
or  friends,  and  chagrin  at  the  frustration  of  one's  deepest  and 
most  permanent  ideals.  The  second  course  of  action,  to 
stay  at  home  and  study,  though  it  is  seen  to  have  connected 
with  it  certain  immediate  privations,  is  foreseen  to  involve 
the  further  consequences  of  passing  the  examination,  keeping 
one's  scholarship,  and  maintaining  certain  personal  or  intel- 
lectual standards  one  has  set  one's  self.  Even  if  the  student 
decides  to  follow  the  first  course  of  action  to  which  an  immedi- 
ate impulse  has  prompted  him,  his  act  is  different  in  quality 
from  what  it  would  have  been  if  he  had  not  reflected  at  all. 
The  student  goes  out  fully  aware  of  the  consequences  of  what 
he  is  doing;  he  goes  for  the  immediate  pleasure  and  in  spite 
of  the  possible  failure  in  the  examination.  The  very  heart 
of  reflective  behavior  is  thus  seen  to  lie  in  the  fact  that  present 
stimuli  are  reacted  to,  not  for  what  they  are  as  immediate 
stimuli,  but  for  what  they  signify,  portend,  imply,  in  the  way 
of  consequences  or  results.  And  a  response  made  upon  reflec- 
tion is  made  on  the  basis  of  these  imaginatively  realized  con- 
sequences. We  connect  what  we  do  with  the  results  that 

1  The  technique  of  reflection  will  be  discussed  in  detail  in  the  chapter  on 
"Science  and  Scientific  Method.". 


,  REFLECTION  51 

flow  from  the  doing,  and 'control  our  action  in  the  light  of  that 
prophetically  realized  connection. 

The  process  is  obviously  not  always  so  simple  as  that  de- 
scribed in  the  above  illustration.  In  the  first  place,  more 
than  two  courses  of  action  may  suggest  themselves.  And  the 
consequences  of  any  one  of  them  may  be  far  more  complex 
and  far  more  obscure  than  any  suggested  in  the  above.  For 
an  individual  to  be  able  to  decide  a  problem  on  the  basis  of 
consequences  imaginatively  foreseen,  it  is  often  necessary  to 
institute  a  very  elaborate  system  of  connecting  links  between 
an  immediately  suggested  course  of  action  and  its  not  at  all 
obvious  results.  "Thinking  a  thing  out"  involves  precisely 
this  introduction  of  connecting  links,  or  "middle  terms,"  be- 
tween what  is  immediately  given  or  suggested  and  what 
necessarily,  though  by  no  means  obviously,  follows.  This 
is  illustrated  in  the  case  of  any  more  or  less  theoretical  problem 
and  its  solution.  To  perceive,  for  example,  the  connection 
between  atmospheric  pressure  and  the  rise  of  water  in  a 
suction  pump  involves  the  introduction  of  connecting  links 
in  the  form  of  the  general  law  of  gravitation,  of  which  atmos- 
pheric pressure  is  a  special  case. 

But  the  same  is  true  of  practical  problems.  A  young  man 
may  be  trying  to  decide  whether  or  not  to  take  a  nomination 
to  the  training  course  at  West  Point.  He  may  be  attracted 
by  the  four  years'  training,  and  highly  value  the  results  of  it. 
He  may  think,  however,  that  the  training  involves  an  obliga- 
tion to  serve  in  the  army;  it  may  mean,  for  a  long  time,  serv- 
ice in  some  remote  army  post.  His  decision  may  be  deter- 
mined by  this  last  consideration,  which  required  a  series  of 
intermediate  "linking"  ideas  to  bring  to  light.' 

The  technique  of  scientific  or  expert  thinking  is,  in  large 
part,  concerned  with  devices  for  enabling  the  thinker  more 
securely  to  trace  the  obscure  and  remote  connections  between 
actions  and  their  consequences,  between  causes  and  effects. 
But,  whether  simple  or  complex,  the  essential  feature  of 
reflective  activity  is  that  it  is  action  performed  in  the  light  of 


52  HUMAN  TRAITS 

consequences  foreseen  in  imagination.  Physical  stimuli  arc 
not  responded  to  immediately  with  physical  action.  They 
are  responded  to  as  symbols,  signs,  or  portents;  they  are 
taken  as  symptoms  of  the  results  that  would  follow  if  they 
were  acted  upon.  That  is,  they  are,  until  decision  is  made, 
reacted  to  imaginatively.  When  an  actual  response  is  finally 
made,  it  is  made  on  the  basis  of  the  results  that  have  been 
more  or  less  accurately  and  directly  anticipated  in  imagina- 
tion. 

Reflection  as  the  modifier  of  instinct.  Reflection  is  pri- 
marily a  revealer  of  consequences.  Instead  of  yielding  to 
the  first  impulse  that  occurs  to  him,  the  thinking  man  con- 
siders where  that  impulse,  if  followed  out,  will  lead.  And 
since  man  is  moved  by  more  than  one  impulse  at  a  time,  reflec- 
tion traces  the  consequences  of  each,  and  determines  action 
on  the  basis  of  the  relative  satisfactions  it  can  prophesy  after 
careful  inquiry  into  the  situation.  To  reflect  is  primarily  to 
query  a  stimulus,  to  find  out  what  it  means  in  terms  of  its 
consequences.  The  more  alert,  persistent,  and  careful  this 
inquiry,  the  more  will  instinctive  tendencies  be  checked  and 
modified  and  adjusted  to  new  situations. 

In  the  discussion  of  the  acquisition  of  habits,  it  was  pointed 
out  that  useful  habits  may  be  acquired  most  rapidly  by  an 
analysis  of  them  into  their  significant  features.  The  speed 
with  which  random  instinctive  actions  are  modified  into  a 
series  of  useful  habitual  ones  depends  intimately  upon  how 
clear  and  detailed  is  the  individual's  appreciation  of  the  re- 
sults to  be  achieved  by  one  action  rather  than  another.  A 
large  part  of  learning  even  among  humans  is  doubtless  trial 
and  error,  random  hit-or-miss  attempts,  until  after  successive 
repetitions,  a  successful  response  is  made  and  retained.  But 
human  learning  and  habit-formation  are  so  much  more  vari- 
ous and  fruitful  than  those  of  animals  precisely  because  hu- 
man beings  can  check  and  modify  instinctive  responses  in  the 
light  of  consequences  which  they  can  foresee.  These  foreseen 
consequences  are,  of  course,  derived  from  previous  experience; 


REFLECTION  53 

that  is,  they  are  " remembered."  But  reflection  short-circuits 
the  process.  The  more  deliberate  and  reflective  the  process 
of  learning,  the  more  the  individual  notes  the  connections  be- 
tween the  things  he  does  and  the  results  he  gets,  the  fewer 
repetitions  will  he  need  in  order  effectively  to  modify  his  in- 
stinctive behavior  into  useful  habits.  He  will  anticipate 
results;  he  will  experience  them  hi  imagination.  He  will  not 
need  to  make  every  wrong  move  in  paddling  a  canoe  until  he 
finally  hits  upon  the  right  one.  He  will  not  need  to  alienate 
all  his  clients  before  learning  to  deal  with  them  successfully. 
In  any  given  set  of  circumstances  he  will  form  the  effective 
habits  rapidly.  He  will  calculate,  "figure  out,"  find  out  in 
advance.  To  keep  one's  temper  under  provocation,  to  re- 
frain from  eating  delicious  and  indigestible  foods,  to  keep  at 
work  when  one  would  like  to  play,  and  sometimes  to  play 
when  one  is  engrossed  in  work,  are  familiar  instances  of  how 
our  first  impulses  become  checked,  restrained,  or  modified  in 
the  light  of  the  results  we  have  discovered  to  be  associated 
with  them. 

Reflective  behavior  modifies  habit.  The  same  conscious 
breaking-up  of  a  new  type  of  action  into  its  significant  fea- 
tures, the  same  connection  of  a  given  action  with  a  given 
result  which  makes  the  intelligent  learner  so  much  more 
quickly  acquire  effective  new  habits  than  the  one  who  is 
mechanically  drilled,  leads  also  to  a  continuous  criticism  of 
habits,  and  their  discontinuance  when  they  are  no  longer  ade- 
quate. Reflection,  if  it  is  itself  a  habit,  is  the  most  valuable 
one  of  all.  It  is  an  important  counterpoise  to  the  hardening 
and  fossilization  which  repeated  habitual  actions  bring  about 
in  the  nervous  system. 

In  acting  reflectively  we  subject  our  accustomed  ways  to 
deliberate  analysis,  however  immediately  persuasive  these 
may  have  become,  and  deliberately  institute  new  habits  iu 
the  light  of  the  more  desirable  consequences  they  will  bring. 
Habits  come  to  be  regarded  not  as  final  or  as  good  in  them- 
selves, but  as  methods  of  accomplishing  good.  If  they  fail 


54  HUMAN  TRAITS 

to  bring  genuine  satisfaction,  reflection  can  indicate  wherein 
they  are  inadequate,  wherein  they  may  be  changed,  and 
whether  they  should  be  altogether  discarded. 

Reflection  thus  makes  conduct  conscious;  it  is  not  the  sub- 
stitute for  instinct  and  habit;  it  is  the  guide  and  controller  of 
both.  When  we  act  thoughtfully  and  intelligently,  we  are 
doing  things  not  because  we  have  done  them  that  way  in  the 
past,  or  because  it  is  the  first  response  that  occurs  to  us,  but 
because,  in  the  light  of  analysis,  that  way  will  bring  about  the 
most  desirable  results. 

The  limits  of  reflection  as  a  modifier  of  instinct  and  habit. 
While  our  impulses  and  habits  may  be  subjected  to  the  criti- 
cism of  reflection  in  the  light  of  the  consequences  which  it 
can  forecast,  reflection  is  itself  seriously  limited  by  our  orig- 
inal impulses  and  our  acquired  habitual  ones.  On  reflection, 
we  may  not  follow  our  first  impulse,  but  to  act  at  all  is  to  act 
on  some  original  or  acquired  impulse  or  a  combination  of 
them.  Which  original  tendency  we  shall  follow  reflection  can 
tell  us;  it  cannot  tell  us  to  follow  none.  In  the  illustration 
already  used,  the  student  may  upon  reflection  study  rather 
than  go  out.  But  the  roots  of  his  studying  will  also  lie  back 
in  the  instincts  and  habits  which  are,  for  better  or  for  worse, 
his  only  equipment  for  action.  They  will  lie  back  in  the 
tendencies  to  be  curious,  to  gam  the  praise  of  other  people 
and  to  be  a  leader  among  them,  in  the  habits  of  knowing  work 
thoroughly,  of  studying  in  the  evening,  of  maintaining  a 
scholarship  average  to  which  he  has  been  accustomed.  Re- 
flection may  weigh  the  relative  persuasions  of  various  im- 
pulses; it  cannot  ignore  them.  We  may  think  in  order  to 
attain  our  desires,  and  may,  through  reflection,  learn  to 
change  them;  we  cannot  abolish  them.  Whether  we  are 
curious  about  our  neighbors'  business  or  about  the  move- 
ments of  the  stars  and  the  possible  reactions  of  a  strange 
chemical  element,  depends  on  OUT  previous  training  and  the 
extent  to  which  inquiry  itself  has  become  a  fixed  and  per- 
sistent habit.  But  in  any  case  we  are  curious.  Whether  we 


REFLECTION  55 

fight  in  street  brawls  or  in  campaigns  against  tuberculosis, 
we  are  still,  as  it  were,  born  fighters. 

Similarly,  in  the  case  of  habit,  we  may  upon  reflection  dis- 
cover that  our  habits  of  walking,  writing,  or  speech  are  bad; 
that  we  ought  not  to  smoke,  or  drink,  or  waste  time.  We 
may  come,  through  reflection,  to  realize  with  the  utmost 
clarity  the  advantages  to  ourselves  of  acquiring  the  habits  of 
going  to  bed  early,  saving  money,  keeping  our  papers  hi  order, 
and  persisting  at  work  amid  distractions.  But  the  bad  habits 
and  the  good  are  already  fixed  in  our  nervous  system,  and  in 
physiology  also  possession  is  nine  tenths  of  the  law.  We  may 
intend  to  change,  but  by  taking  thought  alone  we  cannot  add 
a  cubit  to  our  stature.  Reflection  can  do  no  more  than  point 
the  way  we  should  go.  For  unless  the  wrong  actions  are  sys- 
tematically and  repeatedly  refrained  from,  and  the  proper 
ones  made  habitual,  thinking  remains  merely  an  impotent 
summary  of  what  can  be  done.  Conduct  is  governed,  it  must 
be  repeated,  by  the  satisfactions  action  can  bring  us,  and 
unless  actions  are  made  habitual  they  will  not  be  performed 
with  satisfaction. 

How  instincts  and  habits  impair  the  processes  of  reflection* 
It  is  as  important  as  it  is  paradoxical  that  thinking  is  unpaired 
in  its  efficiency  by  the  instincts  and  habits  in  whose  service  it 
arises,  and  whose  conflicts  and  maladjustments  it  helps  to 
resolve.  The  situations  of  conflict  or  perplexity  which  pro- 
voke thinking  are  determined  by  the  particular  tendencies 
which,  by  nature  or  training,  are  brought  into  play  in  any 
given  situation.  If  we  are  committed  by  tradition  or  habitual 
allegiance  to  a  protective  tariff,  we  will  be  concerned  in  our 
thinking  with  details,  what  articles  need  protection  and  how 
much  do  they  need;  the  ultimate  desirability  of  a  protective 
tariff  will  not  be  a  problem  remotely  occurring  to  us.  If  we 
are  by  training  committed  to  capital  punishment,  we  will  be 
concerned,  if  we  think  about  it  at  all,  with  means  and  meth- 
ods; we  will  think  about  the  relative  merits  of  hanging  or 
electrocution;  the  ultimate  justification  or  desirability  of  cap- 


56  HUMAN  TRAITS 

ital  punishment  will  not  be  a  problem  or  issue  for  us  at  alk 
Thus,  it  may  be  said  in  a  sense  that  our  thinking  is  determined 
by  what  we  do  not  think  about  as  much  as  by  what  we  do 
think  about.  What  we  take  for  granted  limits  the  field  within 
which  we  will  inquire  or  reflect  at  all.  But  what  we  take  for 
granted  is,  on  the  whole,  settled  by  our  habitual  reactions. 
And  the  more  settled  habitual  convictions  we  have,  the  nar- 
rower becomes  the  field  within  which  reflection  takes  place. 
Force  of  habit  may  leave  us  blind  to  many  situations  genu- 
inely demanding  solution.  Originality  in  thinking  consists, 
in  part  at  least,  hi  an  ability  to  see  a  problem  where  others, 
through  routine,  see  none.  Apples  have  fallen  on  the  heads 
of  others  than  Newton,  but  a  habit-ridden  rustic  will  not  be 
stirred  by  the  falling  of  an  apple  to  reflection  on  the  problem 
of  falling  bodies.  The  countryman  may  live  all  his  life  se- 
renely oblivious  to  a  thousand  problems  that  would  pique 
the  curiosity  and  reflection  of  a  botanist  or  geologist.  A  man 
may  go  on  for  years  accepting  income  on  investments  earned 
in  very  dubious  ways  without  ever  pausing  to  reflect  on  the 
sources  or  the  justification  of  his  wealth.1 

Instincts  and  habits,  furthermore,  limit  the  field  of  possible 
courses  of  action  that  suggest  themselves.  We  come,  through 
habit,  to  be  alive  only  to  certain  possibilities  to  the  practical 
exclusion  of  all  others.  Thinking  becomes  fruitful  and  sug- 
gestive when  it  is  freed  from  the  limited  number  of  suggestions 
that  occur  through  force  of  habit.  But  original  thinking  is 
rare  precisely  because  habits  do  have  such  a  compulsive 
power  in  determining  the  possibilities  of  action  that  suggest 
themselves  to  us.  The  man  who  moves  in  a  rut  of  habitual 
reactions  will  "never  think"  of  possibilities  that  "stare  in  the 
face"  a  less  habit-ridden  thinker.  Inventiveness,  originality, 

1  According  to  the  traditional  anecdote,  when  Marie  Antoinette  was  told 
that  the  people  were  clamoring  because  they  could  not  get  any  bread,  the 
one  problem  that  occurred  to  her  was  why  they  didn't  eat  cake.  From  the 
habits  and  conditions  of  life  to  which  she  was  accustomed,  there  had  never 
arisen  a  problem  as  to  how  to  get  food  at  all ;  it  was  merely  a  problem  of  what 
kind  of  food  to  eat. 


REFLECTION  57 

creative  intelligence,  whatever  one  chooses  to  call  it,  consists, 
in  no  small  measure,  in  this  ability  to  remain  alive  to  a  wide 
variety  of  stimuli,  to  keep  sensitive  to  all  the  possibilities  that 
are  in  a  situation,  instead  of  those  only  to  which  we  are  im- 
mediately prompted  by  instinct  or  habit.  The  possibility  of 
using  the  current  of  a  river  as  power  is  not  the  first  possibility 
that  flowing  water  suggests. 

Past  training  and  individual  differences  in  temperament 
not  only  limit  the  possibilities  that  do  occur  to  us;  they  seri- 
ously distort,  color,  and  qualify  those  of  which  we  become 
conscious.  We  forecast  differently  and  with  differing  degrees 
of  accuracy  the  consequences  of  those  possible  courses  of 
action  which  do  occur  to  us  according  to  the  influence  and 
stimulation  which  particular  native  traits  and  acquired  im- 
pulses have  in  our  conduct.  Ideally,  the  consequences  which 
we  imaginatively  forecast  as  following  from  a  given  course  of 
action,  should  tally  with  the  consequences  which  genuinely 
follow  from  it.  But  there  is  too  often  a  sad  discrepancy  be- 
tween the  consequences  as  they  are  foreseen  by  the  individual 
concerned  and  the  genuine  consequences  that  could  be  fore- 
seen by  any  disinterested  observer.  The  discrepancy  be- 
tween the  genuine  and  the  imagined  consequences  of  given 
ideas  or  suggestions  is  caused  more  than  anything  else  by 
the  hopes,  fears,  aversions,  and  preferences  which,  by  nature 
or  training,  are  controlling  in  a  man's  behavior.  Facts  are 
weighed  differently  according  as  one  or  another  of  these 
psychological  influences  is  present.  We  intend  unconsciously 
to  substitute  a  desired  or  expected  consequence  for  the  actual 
one;  we  tend  to  be  oblivious  to  consequences  which  we  fear, 
and  quick  to  imagine  those  for  which  we  hope.  On  the  day 
before  an  election  the  campaign  managers  on  both  sides,  in 
the  glow  and  momentum  of  their  activities,  are  confident  of 
the  morrow's  victory.  The  opponent  of  prohibition  saw 
nothing  but  drug  fiends  and  revolution  as  its  consequences; 
its  extreme  advocates  saw  it  as  the  salvation  of  mankind. 

The  causes  of  error  in  appraising  the  consequences  of  any 


58  HUMAN  TRAITS 

given  course  of  action  are  partly  individual  and  partly  social 
in  character.  From  Francis  Bacon  down,  there  have  been 
various  attempts  to  classify  these  factors  in  the  distortion  of 
the  reflective  process.  In  connection  with  the  particular 
human  traits,  especially  such  as  fear  and  gregariousness,  we 
shall  have  occasion  to  examine  a  few  of  these. 

It  will  suffice  to  point  out  here  that  the  aim  of  reflective 
thinking  is  to  discover  the  genuine  consequences  of  things, 
and  to  eliminate  and  discount  those  prejudices  and  prefer- 
ences, bred  of  early  education  and  training,  which  might  im- 
pair our  discovery  of  those  consequences.  To  the  untrained, 
those  things  look  most  significant  which  stir  then*  impulses 
most  strikingly.  The  beggar's  sores  seem  much  more  impor- 
tant and  terrible  than  a  gifted  youngster  deprived  of  education 
through  poverty.  Instinctively  we  shrink  back  from  the  sight 
of  blood,  but  instinct  is  no  safe  clue  in  helping  us  to  distin- 
guish between  the  poisons  and  the  panaceas  among  the 
brightly  colored  bottles  of  chemicals  ranged  along  a  shelf. 
The  whole  technique  of  scientific  method  as  opposed  to  the 
shrewd  but  unreliable  guesses  of  common  sense  is  one  of  free- 
ing us  from  the  compulsions  of  random  habitual  impulses. 
It  substitutes  for  caprice  the  measuring  of  consequences,  the 
detailed  knowing  of  what  we  are  about.  That  impartial  judg- 
ment has  its  difficulties  is  clear  from  the  simple  fact  alone  that 
human  beings  start  by  being  a  bundle  of  instincts  and  soon 
grow  into  a  bundle  of  habits.  To  the  extent  to  which  they 
can  control  these  they  are  masters  of  themselves. 

The  value  of  reflection  for  life.  To  many  people  there  is 
something  terrifying  about  the  idea  of  controlling  life  by 
reason.  Life  (they  point  out  correctly)  is  a  vital  process  of 
instincts  which  appear  before  thinking,  and  which  are  often 
more  powerful  than  reasoned  judgments.  Against  advice  to 
live  consciously,  to  be  in  control  of  ourselves,  to  know  what 
we  are  about,  comes  the  call  "Back  to  Nature."  A  life  of 
reflection  appears  chilling  and  arbitrary.  Because  reflection 
so  often  reveals  that  impulses  must  be  checked  if  disaster 


REFLECTION  59 

is  not  to  result,  it  has  come  to  be  associated  with  a  metal- 
lic and  Stoic  repression.  To  many  a  persuasive  impulse  we 
must,  after  reflection,  say,  "No."  Because  of  this  a  certain 
school  of  philosophers,  poets,  and  radicals  urges  us  to  trust 
nature,  to  follow  our  impulses,  which,  being  natural,  must 
be  right. 

All  of  these  rebels  against  reason  make  the  mistake  of  sup- 
posing that  the  aim  of  reflective  thinking  is  to  quell  instincts, 
which,  with  the  best  will  in  the  world,  it  cannot  succeed  in 
doing.  Instincts  are  present  and  powerful.  In  themselves 
they  are  neither  worth  encouraging,  nor  ought  they  to  be 
repressed.  The  satisfaction  of  native  desires  is  what  we  want. 
The  importance  of  reflective  thinking  is  precisely  that  it  helps 
us  to  secure  those  satisfactions.  To  surrender  to  every  ran- 
dom impulse  or  every  habitual  prompting  is  to  have  neither 
satisfaction  nor  freedom.  Reflection  might  be  compared  to 
the  traffic  policeman  at  the  junction  of  two  crowded  thorough- 
fares. If  every  one  were  to  drive  his  car  pell-mell  through  the 
rush,  if  pedestrians,  street  cars,  and  automobiles  were  not  to 
abide  by  the  rules,  no  one  would  get  anywhere,  and  the  result 
would  be  perpetual  accident  and  collision.  In  thinking  we 
simply  control  and  direct  our  impulses  in  the  light  of  the  con- 
sequences we  can  foresee.  To  thus  guide  and  control  action 
makes  us  genuinely  free. 

If  a  man's  actions  are  not  guided  by  thoughtful  conclusions,  they 
are  guided  by  inconsiderate  impulse,  unbalanced  appetite,  caprice, 
or  the  circumstances  of  the  moment.  To  cultivate  unhindered,  unre- 
flective  external  activity  is  to  foster  enslavement,  for  it  leaves  the 
person  at  the  mercy  of  appetite,  sense,  and  circumstance.1 

Instincts  and  habits  are  fixed  responses;  being  placed  in 
such  and  such  circumstances  we  must  do  such  and  such  things. 
Only  when  we  can  vary  our  actions  in  the  light  of  our  own 
thinking  are  we  masters  of  our  environment  rather  than 
mechanically  controlled  by  it. 

The  social  importance  of  reflective  behavior.    Reflection 

»  Dewey:  How  We  Think,  p.  67. 


60  HUMAN  TRAITS 

in  the  life  of  the  individual  insures  that  he  will  not  become  the 
slave  of  his  own  habits.  He  will  regard  habits  as  methods 
to  be  followed  when  they  produce  good  results,  to  be  discarded 
or  modified  when  they  do  not.  But  if  habit  in  the  life  of  the 
individual  needs  control  lest  it  become  dangerously  control- 
ling, it  needs  it  more  conspicuously  still  in  the  life  of  the  group. 
Unless  the  individuals  that  compose  a  society  are  alert  and 
conscious  of  the  bearings  of  their  actions,  they  will  be  com- 
pletely and  mechanically  controlled  by  the  customs  to  which 
they  have  been  exposed  in  the  early  periods  of  their  lives. 
What  an  individual  regards  as  right  or  wrong,  what  he  will 
cherish  or  champion  in  industry,  government,  and  art,  de- 
pends hi  large  measure  on  his  early  education  and  training 
and  on  the  opinions  and  beliefs  of  other  people  with  whom  he 
repeatedly  comes  in  contact.  A  society  may  be  democratic 
in  its  political  form  and  still  autocratic  in  fact  if  the  majority 
of  its  citizens  are  merely  machines  which  can  be  set  off  to 
respond  hi  certain  determinate  ways  to  customary  stimuli  of 
names,  leaders,  and  party  slogans.  A  society  becomes  gen- 
uinely democratic,  precisely  to  the  extent  to  which  there  is 
on  the  part  of  its  citizens  participation  in  the  important  deci- 
sions affecting  all  their  lives.  But  the  participation  will  only 
be  a  formality  if  votes  are  decided  and  opinions  formed  on  the 
basis  of  habit  alone. 

Reflection  removed  from  immediate  application  —  Science. 
Thus  far  thinking  has  been  discussed  in  its  more  practical 
aspects.  And  thinking  is  in  its  origins  a  very  practical  matter. 
Literally,  most  people  think  when  they  have  to,  and  only 
when  they  have  to.  Given  a  problem,  a  difficulty,  a  mal- 
adjustment between  the  individual  and  his  environment, 
thinking  occurs.  If  every  instinctive  act  brought  satisfaction, 
thinking  would  be  much  less  necessary  and  much  less  fre- 
quently practiced.  This  is  illustrated  in  the  performance  of 
any  act  that  once  required  attention  and  discrimination,  and 
has  later  become  habitual.  We  do  not  think  how  to  walk, 
eat,  and  spell  familiar  words,  how  to  find  our  way  about 


REFLECTION  61 

familiar  streets  or  even  in  familiar  dark  rooms.  We  do  think 
about  where  we  shall  spend  our  evenings  or  our  summer, 
which  courses  we  shall  choose  at  college,  which  profession 
we  shall  enter.  Where  we  are  uneasy,  drawn  by  competing 
impulses,  we  consider  alternatives,  measure  consequences, 
and  choose  our  course  of  action  in  the  light  of  the  results  we 
can  forecast.  But  while  a  large  proportion  of  reflective  be- 
havior is  thus  practical  in  its  origins  and  its  results,  it  also 
occurs  not  infrequently  where  there  is  no  immediate  problem 
to  be  solved.  Not  all  of  men's  energies  are  concerned  in 
purely  practical  concerns.  And  part  of  man's  superfluous 
vitality  is  expended  in  disinterested  and  curious  inquiry 
into  problems  whose  solutions  afford  no  immediate  practical 
benefits,  but  in  the  mere  solving  of  which  man  finds  satis- 
faction. 

From  the  dawn  of  history,  when  some  man  a  little  more 
curious  than  his  fellows,  a  little  less  absorbed  in  the  hunting, 
the  food-getting,  and  the  fighting  which  were  in  those  early 
days  man's  chief  imperative  business,  first  began  to  observe 
the  mysterious  recurrences  in  the  world  about  him,  the  rising 
and  setting  of  the  sun,  the  return  of  the  seasons,  the  move- 
ments of  the  tides  and  the  stars,  there  have  been  individuals 
born  with  a  marked  and  sometimes  a  passionate  desire  to 
observe  Nature  and  to  generalize  their  observations.  They 
have  noted  that,  given  certain  conditions,  certain  results  fol- 
low. They  observe  that  animals  with  given  similarities  of 
form  and  structure  have  certain  identical  ways  of  life,  that 
some  substances  are  malleable  and  others  not,  that  dew  ap- 
pears at  certain  times  in  the  day  on  certain  objects  and  not 
on  others.  They  have  generalized  from  these;  and  we  now 
call  such  generalizations  law.  These  generalizations  when 
gathered  into  a  system  constitute  a  science. 

The  sciences  started  out  with  unconfirmed  guesses  based 
on  not  very  accurate  information.  As  man's  methods  became 
more  precise,  he  controlled  the  conditions  under  which  obser- 
vations were  made,  and  the  conditions  under  which  generali- 


62  HUMAN  TRAITS 

zations  were  drawn  from  them.  The  control  of  the  conditions 
and  methods  of  observation  constitute  what  is  known  as 
induction  in  science.  To  this  phase  of  the  reflective  process 
belong  all  the  instruments  for  precise  observation  which  char- 
acterize the  scientific  laboratory.  The  control  of  the  methods 
by  which  generalizations  or  theories  are  built  up  from  these 
facts  is  also  part  of  the  logic  of  induction,  and  includes  all  the 
canons  and  regulations  for  inductive  inference. 

But  generalizations  once  made  must  be  tested,  and  the 
elaboration  of  these  generalizations,  the  analysis  of  them  into 
their  precise  bearings,  constitute  that  part  of  the  process  of 
reasoning  known  as  deduction.  The  final  verification  is  again 
inductive,  an  experimental  corroboration  of  theories  by  the 
facts  already  at  hand  and  by  facts  additionally  sought  out 
and  observed. 

(These  processes  will  be  discussed  in  detail  hi  the  chapter 
on  "Science  and  Scientific  Method.") 

However  complicated  the  process  of  inquiry  may  become, 
the  sciences  remain  essentially  man's  mode  of  satisfying  his 
disinterested  curiosity  about  the  world  in  which  he  is  living. 
Through  the  sciences  man  makes  himself,  as  has  been  so  often 
said,  at  home  in  the  world.  He  substitutes  for  the  "  blooming, 
buzzing  confusion"  which  is  the  world  as  he  first  knows  it, 
order,  system,  and  law.  Primitive  man,  absurd  as  seems  to 
us  his  belief  in  a  world  of  magic,  of  malicious  demons  and 
capricious  gods,  was  trying  to  make  sense  out  of  the  meaning- 
less medley  in  which  he  seemed  to  find  himself.  Through 
science,  modern  man  is  likewise  trying  to  make  sense  out  of 
his  world.  The  more  apparently  disconnected  and  incongru- 
ous facts  that  can  be  brought  within  the  compass  of  simple 
and  perfectly  regular  law,  the  less  threatening  or  capricious 
seems  the  world  in  which  we  live.  Where  everything  that 
happens  is  part  of  a  system,  we  do  not  need,  like  the  savage 
trembling  in  a  thunderstorm,  to  be  frightened  at  what  will 
happen  next.  It  is  like  moving  in  familiar  surroundings 
among  familiar  people.  Not  all  that  goes  on  may  be  pleasant, 


REFLECTION  63 

but  we  can  within  limits  predict  what  will  happen,  and  are 
not  puzzled  and  pained  by  continuous  shocks  and  surprises. 
We  like  order  in  the  places  in  which  we  live,  in  our  homes,  in 
our  cities,  in  the  universe. 

The  sciences  satisfy  us  not  only  hi  that  they  bring  order 
into  what  at  first  seems  the  chaos  of  our  surroundings,  but  in 
that  they  are  themselves  beautiful  in  their  spaciousness  and 
their  simplicity.  We  cannot  pause  here  to  consider  the  physi- 
ological facts  which  make  us  admire  symmetry,  but  it  is 
fundamental  in  our  appreciation  of  music,  poetry,  and  the 
plastic  arts.  From  the  sciences,  likewise,  we  derive  the  satis- 
faction of  symmetry  on  a  magnificent  scale.  There  is  beauty 
as  of  a  great  symphony  in  the  sweep  and  movement  of  the 
solar  system.  There  is  a  quiet  and  infinite  splendor  about  the 
changeless  and  comparatively  simple  structure  which  physics, 
in  the  broadest  sense,  reveals  beneath  the  seeming  multiplic- 
ity and  variety  of  things.  It  is  a  desire  for  beauty  as  well  as 
a  thoroughgoing  scientific  passion  which  prompts  men  like 
Poincar6  and  Karl  Pearson  to  seek  for  one  law,  one  formula 
which,  like  "one  clear  chord  to  reach  the  ears  of  God,"  ex- 
presses the  whole  universe. 

The  practical  aspect  of  science.  But  while  the  origins  of 
science  may  lie  in  man's  thirst  for  system,  simplicity,  and 
beauty  hi  the  world,  the  tremendous  advance  of  science  has 
a  more  immediate  and  practical  cause.  To  understand  the 
laws  of  Nature  means  to  have  the  power  of  prediction;  it 
means  to  know  that,  given  certain  circumstances,  certain 
others  follow  always  and  inevitably;  it  means  to  discover 
causes  —  and  their  effects.  Man  having  attained  through 
patient  inquiry  this  capacity  to  tell  in  advance,  may  take 
advantage  of  it  for  his  own  good.  The  whole  of  modern 
industry  with  its  phenomenal  control  of  natural  powers  and 
resources  is  testimony  to  the  use  which  man  has  found  for 
the  facts  and  laws  which  he  would  never  have  found  out 
save  for  the  curiosity  which  was  his  endowment  and  the 
inquiry  which  he  made  his  habit.  "Knowledge  is  power," 


64  HUMAN  TRAITS 

said  Francis  Bacon,  and  the  three  hundred  years  of  science 
that  have  made  possible  the  whole  modern  world  of  elec- 
tric transportation,  air  travel  between  two  continents,  and 
'nstantaneous  communication  between  remote  parts  of  the 
world,  have  proved  the  aphorism.  Man  since  his  origin 
has  tried  to  control  his  environment  for  his  own  good.  The 
cave  and  the  flint  were  his  first  rude  attempts.  In  science 
with  its  accurate  observation  of  facts  not  apparent  to  the  un- 
aided eye,  and  its  discovery  and  demonstration  of  laws  not 
found  by  casual  and  unsystematic  common  sense,  man  has  an 
incomparably  more  refined  instrument,  and  an  incomparably 
more  effective  one.  Thus,  paradoxically  enough,  man's  most 
disinterested  and  impartial  activity  is  at  the  same  time  his 
most  practical  asset. 

The  creation  of  beautiful  objects  and  the  expression  of 
ideas  and  feelings  in  beautiful  form.  Most  men  spend  most 
of  their  lives  necessarily  in  practical  activity.  Man's  particu- 
lar equipment  of  instincts  survived  in  "the  struggle  for  exist- 
ence" precisely  because  they  were  practical,  because  they  did 
help  the  human  creature  to  maintain  his  equilibrium  in  a 
half-friendly,  half-hostile  environment.  Man  acquires  also, 
as  already  has  been  pointed  out,  habits  that  are  useful  to  him, 
that  bring  him  satisfactions  not  attainable  through  the  ran- 
dom instinctive  responses  which  are  his  at  birth.  Reflection, 
too,  is,  for  the  most  part,  severely  practical  in  its  origins  and 
its  responsibilities.  It  guides  action  into  economical  and  use- 
ful channels. 

Most  of  man's  actions  are  thus  ways  of  modifying  his  envi- 
ronment for  immediately  practical  purposes.  Man  has  in- 
stincts and  habits  which  enable  him  to  live.  But  in  making 
those  changes  hi  the  world  which  enable  him  to  live  better, 
man,  as  it  were  by  accident,  makes  them  beautifully.  Pot- 
tery begins,  for  example,  as  a  practical  art,  but  the  skilled 
potter  cannot  help  spending  a  little  excess  vitality  and  habit- 
ual skill  in  adding  a  quite  unnecessarily  graceful  curve,  a 
gratuitous  decoration  to  the  utilitarian  vessel  he  is  making. 


REFLECTION  65 

In  the  words  of  Santayana,  "What  had  to  be  done  was,  by 
imaginative  races,  done  imaginatively;  what  had  to  be  spoken 
or  made  was  spoken  or  made  fitly,  lovingly,  beautifully.  .  . . 
The  ceaseless  experimentation  and  fermentation  of  ideas,  in 
breeding  what  it  had  a  propensity  to  breed,  came  sometimes 
on  figments  that  gave  it  delightful  pause."  l 

These  accidental  graces  that  man  makes  in  the  instinctive 
and  habitual  control  to  which  he  subjects  his  environment 
become  the  most  cherished  values  of  his  experience.  Men 
may  first  have  come  to  speak  poetry  accidentally,  for  lan- 
guage arose,  like  other  human  habits,  as  a  thing  of  use.  But 
the  charming  and  delightful  expression  of  feelings  and  ideas 
came  to  be  cherished  in  themselves,  so  that  what  was  first  an 
accident  in  man's  life,  may  become  a  deliberate  practice. 
When  this  creation  of  beautiful  objects,  or  the  beautiful  ex- 
pression of  feelings  or  ideas  is  intentional,  we  call  it  art.  In 
such  intentional  creation  and  cherishing  of  the  beautiful  man's 
life  becomes  enriched  and  emancipated.  He  learns  not  only 
to  live,  but  to  live  beautifully. 

In  such  activity  men,  as  has  been  recognized  by  social  re- 
formers from  Plato  to  Bertrand  Russell,  are  genuinely  happy, 
and  there  alone  find  freedom.  For  in  the  creation  of  beauty 
man  is  not  performing  actions  because  he  must,  under  the 
brutal  compulsion  of  keeping  alive.  He  is  acting  simply  be- 
cause action  is  delightful  both  in  the  process  and  hi  the  result. 
Whether  in  business,  politics,  or  scholarship,  men  are  happy 
to  the  extent  to  which  they  have  the  sense  of  creation  that  is 
peculiarly  the  artist's. 

The  products  of  art,  moreover,  are  not  desirable  because 
they  bring  other  goods,  but  because  they  themselves  are  in- 
trinsically delightful.  Men  love  to  live  in  a  world  hi  which 
their  marble  has  been  made  into  statues,  in  which  their  houses 
are  things  of  beauty  rather  than  merely  places  in  which  to 
live.  Their  lives  are  enriched  by  living  in  a  society  where 
the  thoughts  and  emotions  which  they  communicate  to  one 

1  Santayana:  Reason  in  Art,  p.  10. 


66  HUMAN  TRAITS 

another  and  which  they  must  somehow  express  can  be  not 
infrequently  expressed  with  nobility  and  music.  Through 
science  Nature  becomes  man's  tool;  through  art  it  can  be- 
come a  beautiful  instrument  to  work  with,  and  a  lovely  thing 
in  and  for  itself. 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE  BASIC  HUMAN  ACTIVITIES 

Food,  shelter,  and  sex.  Thus  far  our  analysis  has  been  con- 
fined to  the  general  types  of  human  behavior.  We  have 
found  that  all  human  activity  is  conditioned  by  a  native 
equipment  consisting  of  certain  more  or  less  specific  tenden- 
cies to  action,  and  that  these  may  be  modified  into  acquired 
tendencies  called  "  habits."  We  have  found  that  through  the 
processes  of  reflection,  through  imaginative  trial  and  error, 
both  of  these  may,  within  limits,  be  controlled.  We  must 
now  proceed  to  an  inventory  of  those  elements  of  our  native 
equipment  which  have  an  especial  significance  in  social  life. 

In  the  first  place,  we  must  note  the  three  great  primary 
drives  of  human  action,  the  unlearned  and  native  demands 
for  food,  shelter,  and  sex  gratification.1  Although  the  last- 
named  does  not  display  itself  in  human  beings  until  a  consid- 
erable degree  of  maturity  has  been  attained  there  is  indubita- 
ble evidence  that  it  is  an  inborn  and  not  an  acquired  reaction. 
The  practical  utility  of  the  first  two  is  apparent;  they  are  the 
most  essential  features  of  the  group  of  so-called  self-preserv- 
ative instincts,  among  which  may  be  grouped  the  natural 
tendency  to  recover  one's  equilibrium  and  the  instinct  of 
flight  in  the  face  of  dangerous  or  threatening  objects.  The 
utility  of  the  sex  instinct  is  racial  rather  than  individual.  The 
instinctive  satisfaction  human  beings  find  in  sex  gratification 
is  the  natural  guarantee  of  the  continuance  of  the  race. 

In  a  general  survey  of  this  nature  it  is  impossible,  as  it  is 

1  The  reader  must  be  reminded  that  the  simpler  reflexes  involved  in  the 
use  of  the  heart,  lungs,  intestines,  and  all  the  internal  organs,  must  be  classed 
as  part  of  man's  native  equipment.  They  differ  from  those  reactions  com- 
monly classed  as  instincts  in  that  they  are  simpler  and  stabler,  that  in  their 
normal  functioning  they  never  rise  to  consciousness,  and  that  they  are  almost 
completely  beyond  the  individual's  modification  or  control.  . 


68  HUMAN  TRAITS 

unnecessary,  to  examine  in  detail  the  physiological  elements 
of  the  demand  for  food  and  shelter.  It  will  suffice  to  point 
out  that  the  first  two  are  the  ultimate  biological  bases  of  a 
large  proportion  of  our  economic  activities.  They  are  pri- 
mary, not  in  the  sense  that  they  are  constantly  conscious 
motives  to  action,  but  that  their  fulfillment  is  prerequisite  to 
the  continuance  of  any  of  the  other  activities  of  the  organism. 
Agriculture  and  manufacture,  the  complicated  systems  of 
credit  and  exchange  which  human  beings  have  devised,  are, 
for  the  most  part,  contrivances  for  the  fulfillment  of  these 
fundamental  demands.  With  the  complexity  of  civilization 
new  demands,  of  course,  arise,  but  these  fundamental  necessi- 
ties are  still  the  ultimate  mainsprings  of  economic  production. 
The  demand  for  sex  gratification,  because  of  its  enormous 
driving  force  and  the  emotional  disturbances  connected  with 
it,  offers  a  peculiarly  acute  instance  of  the  difficulties  brought 
about  in  the  control  of  man's  native  endowment  in  his  own 
best  interest.  While  the  production  of  offspring  is  its  chief 
biological  utility,  satisfaction  of  the  sex  instinct  itself  is  stimu- 
lated in  human  beings  quite  apart  from  considerations  of  the 
desirability  or  undesirability  of  offspring.  Since  the  sex  in- 
stinct is  at  once  so  deep-rooted  and  intense  a  driving  force  in 
human  action,  and  its  consequences  of  such  crucial  impor- 
tance to  both  those  directly  involved  and  to  the  group  as  a 
whole,  societies  have,  through  law  and  custom  and  tradition, 
built  up  elaborate  codes  for  its  control.  In  civilized  society 
the  free  operation  of  this  instinct  is  checked  in  a  thousand 
ways.  But,  as  in  the  case  of  other  primitive  motives  to  ac- 
tion, the  sex  instinct,  obvious  as  are  the  disasters  of  disease 
and  disorganization  which  follow  as  consequences  of  its  un- 
controlled indulgence,  cannot  altogether  be  repressed. 

It  is  generally  recognized  that  in  men  and  animals  alike  the  sex 
impulse  is  apt  to  manifest  itself  in  very  vigorous  and  sustained 
efforts  toward  its  natural  end;  and  that  in  ourselves  it  may  deter- 
mine very  strong  desires,  in  the  control  of  which  all  the  organized 
forces  of  the  developed  personality,  all  our  moral  sentiments  and 


THE  BASIC  HUMAN  ACTIVITIES  69 

ideals,  and  all  the  restraining  influences  of  religion,  law,  custom 
and  convention  too  often  are  confronted  with  a  task  beyond  their 
strength.1 

There  is  considerable  agreement  among  students  of  the 
subject  that  the  emotional  energies  aroused  in  connection 
with  the  sex  instinct  may  be  drained  off  into  other  channels, 
and  serve  to  quicken  and  sustain  both  artistic  creation  and 
appreciation  and  social  and  religious  enthusiasms  of  various 
kinds.  And  the  sex  instinct,  as  we  shall  find  in  our  discussion 
of  Racial  Continuity  (see  p.  243)  is  the  basis  of  the  family. 

Physical  activity.  The  difference  between  sticks  and  stones 
and  living  beings  consists  primarily  in  the  fact  that  the  latter 
are  positively  active;  the  former  are  passively  acted  upon. 
The  stone  will  stay  put,  unless  moved  by  some  external  agent, 
but  even  the  amoeba  will  do  something  to  its  environment. 
It  will  stretch  out  pseudopodia  to  reach  solid  objects  to  which 
to  cling;  it  will  attempt  to  return  to  these  objects  when  dis- 
lodged; it  will  actively  absorb  food.  Higher  up  hi  the  animal 
scale,  "  Rats  run  about,  smell,  dig,  or  gnaw,  without  real  refer- 
ence to  the  business  in  hand.  In  the  same  way  Jack  (a  dog) 
scrabbles  and  jumps,  the  kitten  wanders  and  picks,  the  otter 
slips  about  everywhere  like  ground  lightning,  the  elephant 
fumbles  ceaselessly,  the  monkey  pulls  things  about."  2  "The 
most  casual  notice  of  the  activities  of  a  young  child  reveals  a 
ceaseless  display  of  exploring  and  testing  activity.  Objects 
are  sucked,  fingered  and  thumped;  drawn  and  pushed,  han- 
dled and  thrown."  8 

When  vitality  is  at  its  height  hi  the  waking  period  of  a 
young  child,  its  environment  is  a  succession  of  stimulations  to 
activity.  Man's  "innate  tendency  to  fool"  is  notorious,  a 
tendency  particularly  noticeable  in  children.  Objects  are 
responded  to,  not  as  means  to  ends,  not  with  reference  to  their 
use,  but  simply  for  the  sheer  satisfaction  of  manipulation. 

1  McDougall:  Social  Psychology,  Hth  ed.,  pp.  399-400. 
1  Hobhouse :  Mind  in  Evolution,  p.  195. 
1  Dewey:  How  We  Think,  p.  31. 


70  HUMAN  TRAITS 

Facial  expressions,  sounds,  gestures,  are  made  almost  on  any 
provocation;  they  are  the  expressions  of  an  abundant  "physi- 
ological uneasiness."  The  two-year-old  is  a  mechanism  that 
simply  must  and  will  move  about,  make  all  kinds  of  super- 
fluous gestures  and  facial  expressions,  and  random  sounds,  as 
it  were,  just  to  get  rid  of  its  stored-up  energy.  Man's  laziness 
and  inertia  are  not  infrequently  commented  on  by  moralists, 
but  it  is  not  laziness  and  inertia  per  se;  certainly  in  normal  in~ 
dividuals  in  the  temperate  zone,  to  do  something  most  of  their 
waking  time  is  a  natural  tendency  and  one  intrinsically  pleas- 
ant to  practice.  That  the  tendency  to  be  active  should  vary 
in  different  individuals  and  at  different  times  is,  of  course,  as 
important  a  fact  as  it  is  a  familiar  one.  Some  of  the  causes  of 
this  variation  will  be  noted  in  the  succeeding. 

In  adult  life  for  casual  and  random  activity  is  substituted 
activity  directed  by  some  end  or  purpose  which  determines 
the  responses  called  into  play.  Professional  and  business,  do- 
mestic and  social  enterprises  and  obligations  take  up  most  of 
the  adult's  energy.  The  contrast  between  the  play  of  the 
child  and  the  work  of  the  adult  is  that  in  the  case  of  the 
former  actions  are  done  for  their  own  sake;  and  in  the  latter 
for  some  end.  The  child,  we  say,  plays  "for  the  fun  of  the 
thing,"  the  adult  works  for  pay,  for  professional  success,  for 
power,  reputation,  etc. 

But  even  in  the  adult  the  desire  for  play  powerfully  per- 
sists. Not  all  the  grown-up's  energy  is  absorbed  in  his  work, 
and  even  some  types  of  work,  like  that  of  the  poet  or  painter, 
or  the  building-up  of  a  great  business  organization,  may  be 
intrinsically  delightful  and  self-sufficient  activity.  Under  the 
conditions  of  modern  industry,  however,  especially  of  machine 
production,  much  —  in  many  cases,  most  —  of  the  activity 
by  which  an  individual  earns  his  living,  utilizes  only  some  of 
his  native  tendencies  to  act,  while  the  working  day  does  not, 
under  normal  conditions,  absorb  all  his  energy.  Whatever 
vitality  is  not,  therefore,  absorbed  in  necessary  work  goes  into 
forms  of  purely  gratuitous  activity.  Which  form  "play" 


THE  BASIC  HUMAN  ACTIVITIES  71 

shall  take  in  the  adult  depends  on  the  degree  to  which  certain 
impulses  are  in  him  stronger  than  others,  either  by  native  en- 
dowment or  cultivation,  and  which  impulses  have  not  been 
sufficiently  utilized  in  him  during  the  day's  work.  A  man 
musically  gifted  will  find  his  recreation  in  some  performance 
on  a  musical  instrument,  let  us  say;  on  the  other  hand,  if  his 
work  is  music,  those  impulses,  strong  though  they  be,  that 
make  him  a  musician,  will  have  been  sufficiently  exhausted  in 
the  day's  work  to  make  some  other  activity  a  more  satisfac- 
tory recreation. 

The  relations  between  play  and  work  can  be  better  under- 
stood by  a  consideration  of  the  physiological  importance  of 
variety  in  activity.  A  certain  regular  recurrence  of  response 
may  be  pleasant,  as  in  rowing  or  canoeing,  or  in  listening  to 
the  rhythms  of  poetry  or  music,  but  a  prolonged  repetition  of 
precisely  the  same  stimulus  or  the  same  set  of  stimuli  may 
make  responses  dissatisfying  to  the  degree  of  pain.  Ideal 
activity,  biologically,  would  be  one  where  every  impulse  was 
just  sufficiently  frequently  called  upon  to  make  response  easy, 
fluent,  and  satisfactory. 

The  reason  "work"  has  traditionally  come  to  be  regarded 
as  unpleasant  and  "  play  "  as  pleasant  is  not  because  the  former 
is  activity  and  the  second  is  torpor.  Leisure  does  not  neces- 
sarily mean  laziness.  Many  a  vacation,  a  camping  party,  a 
walking  expedition,  is  literally  more  strenuous  than  the  work 
an  individual  normally  does.  But  work  means  human  energy 
expended  for  the  sole  purpose  of  accomplishing  some  end. 
And  an  end  involves  the  deliberate  shutting-out  of  every 
impulse  which  does  not  contribute  to  its  fulfillment.  A  man 
weeding  a  garden  may  tire  of  the  weeding  long  before  he  is 
really  physically  exhausted.  One  response  is  being  repeat- 
edly made,  while  at  the  same  time  a  dozen  other  impulses  are 
being  stimulated.  When  Tom  Sawyer,  under  the  compulsion 
of  his  aunt,  is  whitewashing  a  fence,  it  is  shortly  no  fun  for 
him.  But  he  can  make  other  boys  pay  him  apple-cores  and 
jackknives  for  the  fun  of  wielding  the  brush. 


72  HUMAN  TRAITS 

What  we  call  the  feeling  of  boredom  depends  principally 
upon  the  too  repeated  stimulation  of  one  set  of  activities  to 
the  exclusion  of  all  others,  the  continuous  presence  of  a  kind  of 
stimulation  to  which  we  have  been  rendered  unsusceptible,  as, 
for  example,  bad  popular  music  to  a  cultivated  musical  taste, 
or  intricate  chamber  music  to  an  uncultivated  one.  The 
feeling  of  boredom  may  become  physiologically  acute,  as  in 
the  case,  so  frequent  hi  machine  production,  of  literally  mo- 
notonous or  one-operation  jobs.  Long  hours  of  labor  at  acts 
calling  out  only  one  very  simple  response  may  have  very  seri- 
ous effects.  In  the  first  place,  in  the  work  itself,  since  repeti- 
tions of  one  or  one  simple  set  of  responses  may  impair  speed 
and  accuracy.  On  the  part  of  the  worker,  it  promotes  vary- 
ing degrees  of  stupefaction  or  irritation.  Excesses  of  drink, 
gambling,  and  dissipation  among  factory  populations  are 
often  traceable  to  this  continual  frustration  of  normal  in- 
stincts during  working  hours,  followed  by  a  violent  search  for 
stimulation  and  relaxation  after  work  is  over.  Under  condi- 
tions of  machine  production,  the  responses  which  the  worker 
must  make  are  becoming  increasingly  simple  and  automatic. 
Hence  the  problem  of  bringing  variety  into  work  and  some- 
thing of  the  same  vitality  and  spontaneity  into  industry  that 
goes  into  play  and  art  is  becoming  serious  and  urgent.1 

Mental  activity.  Just  as  physical  activity  is  a  character- 
istic of  all  living  beings,  so,  from  almost  earliest  infancy  of 
human  beings,  is  mental  activity.  This  does  not  mean  that 
individuals  from  their  babyhood  are  continually  solving  prob- 
lems. Deliberation  and  reflection  are  simply  the  mature  and 
disciplined  control  of  what  goes  on  during  all  of  our  waking 
hours  —  random  play  of  the  fancy,  imagination.  We  are  not 
always  controlling  our  thought,  but  so  long  as  we  are  awakr 
something  is,  as  we  say,  passing  through  our  heads.  Every 
thing  that  happens  about  us  provokes  some  suggestion  or  idea. 
"Day-dreaming,  building  of  castles  in  the  air,  that  loose  flux 
of  casual  and  disconnected  material  that  floats  through  our 

1  See  Helen  Marot:  Creative  Impulse  in  Industry. 


THE  BASIC  HUMAN  ACTIVITIES  73 

minds  in  relaxed  moments,  are,  in  this  random  sense,  thinking. 
More  of  our  waking  life  than  we  should  care  to  admit,  even  to 
ourselves,  is  likely  to  be  whiled  away  in  this  inconsequential 
trifling  with  idle  fancy  and  unsubstantial  hope."  1 

This  play  of  the  imagination  is  most  uncontrolled  and 
spontaneous  in  childhood,  which  is  often  characteristically 
defined  as  the  period  of  make-believe  or  fancy.  It  is  this  ca- 
pacity which  enables  the  child  to  use  chairs  as  locomotives, 
sticks  as  rifles,  and  wheelbarrows  as  automobiles.  As  we 
grow  older  we  tend  to  discipline  this  vagrant  dreaming,  and  to 
draw  only  those  suggestions  from  objects  which  tally  with  the 
workaday  world  we  live  in.  We  stop  playing  with  our  imagi- 
nation and  put  our  minds  to  work.  But  in  adult  life  desire 
for  the  play  of  the  mind,  like  the  desire  for  the  play  of  the 
body,  persists.  The  endeavor  of  education  is  not  to  crush  but 
to  control  it. 

Imagination,  used  here  in  the  sense  of  random  mental 
activity,  may  be  controlled  in  two  ways,  both  significant  for 
human  welfare.  When  it  is  controlled  with  reference  to  some 
emotional  theme,  as  in  fiction,  drama,  and  poetry,  it  has  no 
reference  necessarily  to  actual  objects  or  events;  it  is  con- 
cerned only  with  producing  the  effect  of  emotional  congruity 
between  incidents,  objects,  forms,  or  sounds.  A  great  novel 
does  not  pretend  to  be  a  literal  transcript  of  experience,  nor 
a  portrait  of  an  actual  person.  When  random  mental  activity 
is  thus  controlled,  it  is  "imagination,"  in  the  popular  sense, 
the  sense  in  which  poets,  painters,  and  dramatists  are  called 
imaginative  artists. 

Imagination  controlled  with  reference  to  facts  produces 
genuine  reflection  and  science.  To  put  it  in  another  way,  no 
matter  how  complicated  thinking  becomes,  no  matter  how 
suggestions  are  examined  and  regulated  with  reference  to  the 
facts  at  hand,  new  ideas,  theories,  and  hypotheses  occur  to 
the  thinker  precisely  by  this  upshoot  of  irresponsible  fancies 
and  suggestions.  This  free  and  fertile  play  of  the  imagina- 

1  Dewey:  How  We  Think,  p.  2. 


74  HUMAN  TRAITS 

tion  is  what  characterizes  the  original  thinker  more  than  any 
other  single  fact.  Suggestions  arise,  as  it  were,  willy-nilly, 
depending  on  an  individual's  inheritance,  his  past  experience, 
his  social  position,  all  at  the  moment  uncontrollable  features 
of  his  situation.  We  can,  through  scientific  method,  examine 
and  regulate  suggestions  once  they  arise,  but  their  appearance 
is  in  a  sense  casual  and  unpredictable,  like  the  fancies  in  a  day- 
dream. The  greatest  scientific  discoveries  have  been  made  in 
a  sudden  "flash  of  imagination,"  as  when  to  the  mind  of  Dar- 
win, after  twenty  years'  painstaking  collection  of  facts,  their 
explanation  through  the  single  encompassing  formula  of  evo- 
lution occurs,  or  when  to  the  mind  of  Newton  the  hypothesis 
of  gravitation  suddenly  suggests  itself. 

The  encouragement  of  a  lively  play  of  the  mind  over  experi- 
ence, the  stimulation  of  imagination  or  what  Bertrand  Rus- 
sell calls  "the  joy  of  mental  adventure"  is  thus  one  of  the 
most  important  sources  of  art  and  science.  The  arousing  of 
imagination  depends  primarily  on  the  inherited  curiosity  of 
man  which  varies  from  the  random  and  restless  exploring 
of  the  child  to  the  careful  and  persistent  investigation  of  the 
trained  scientist.  The  curiosity  which  prompts  the  child  to 
experiment  with  objects  in  a  hit-or-miss  fashion  is  little  more 
than  the  physiological  overflow  of  action  which  has  been  noted 
above. 

Curiosity  becomes  more  distinctively  mental  when  it  is 
social  in  character,  when  the  child  explores  and  experiments 
not  by  its  own  manipulations  but  by  communication,  by  ask- 
ing questions  of  other  people. 

When  the  child  learns  that  he  can  appeal  to  others  to  eke  out  his 
store  of  experiences,  so  that,  if  objects  fail  to  respond  interestingly  to 
his  experiments,  he  may  call  upon  persons  to  provide  interesting  ma- 
terial, a  new  epoch  sets  in.  "What  is  that?"  "  Why  ?  "  become  the 
unfailing  signs  of  a  child's  presence.  At  first  this  questioning  is 
hardly  more  than  a  projection  into  social  relations  of  the  physical 
overflow  which  earlier  kept  the  child  pushing  and  pulling,  opening 
and  shutting.  He  asks  in  succession  what  holds  up  the  house,  what 
holds  up  the  soil  that  holds  the  house,  what  holds  up  the  earth  that 


THE  BASIC  HUMAN  ACTIVITIES  75 

holds  the  soil;  but  his  questions  are  not  evidence  of  any  genuine 
consciousness  of  rational  connections.  His  why  is  not  a  demand 
for  scientific  explanation;  the  motive  behind  it  is  simply  eagerness 
for  a  larger  acquaintance  with  the  mysterious  world  in  which  he  is 
placed.  The  search  is  not  for  a  law  or  principle,  but  only  for  a  big- 
ger fact. .  .  .  But  in  the  feeling,  however  dim,  that  the  facts  which 
directly  meet  the  sense  are  not  the  whole  story,  that  there  is  more 
behind  them  and  more  to  come  from  them,  lies  the  germ  of  intellect- 
ual curiosity.1 

Curiosity  passes  thus  from  casual  rudimentary  inquiry 
into  genuinely  scientific  investigation.  At  first  it  is  merely 
physical  manipulation,  then  merely  disconnected  question- 
ings; it  becomes  genuinely  intellectual  when  it  passes  from 
"inquisitiveness"  to  inquiry.  To  be  inquisitive  means 
merely  to  want  to  know  facts  rather  than  to  solve  problems. 
To  be  scientifically  inquiring  is  to  seek  on  one's  own  account 
the  significant  relations  between  things.  But  these  earlier 
and  more  casual  forms  of  curiosity  are  not  to  be  despised.  If 
developed  and  controlled  they  lead  to  genuinely  disinterested 
study  of  Nature  and  of  men,  to  the  spirit  and  the  methods  of 
science.  That  free  play  of  imagination  which  was  spoken  of 
above  as  the  chief  source  of  original  thinking  and  discovery 
is  stimulated  by  an  active  hunting-out  of  new  suggestions. 
Curiosity  might  also  be  defined  as  aggressive  imagination, 
which,  frequent  enough  in  children,  remains  among  adults  to 
a  pronounced  degree  only  in  geniuses  of  art  and  science.  We 
may  not  agree  with  Bertrand  Russell  that  "everything  is  done 
in  education  to  kill  it,"  but  the  dogmatism  and  fixity  of  mind 
which  so  soon  settle  down  on  maturity,  the  inability  to  be 
sensitive  to  new  experiences,  these  are  discouragingly  famil- 
iar phenomena  clearly  inimical  to  science  and  to  progress. 

An  active  imagination  that  finds  new  materials  to  play 
over  is  the  basis  of  both  science  and  art.  A  skillful  manipula- 
tion of  its  materials  in  words  or  sounds,  colors,  or  lines  makes 
its  result  art.  Their  controlled  examination  and  systematiza- 
tion  makes  them  science. 

1  Dewey:  loc.  cit.,  p.  32. 


76  HUMAN  TRAITS 

Quiescence  —  Fatigue.  That  all  life,  animal  and  human, 
is  characterized  by  activity  of  a  more  or  less  persistent  and 
positive  kind  has  already  been  noted.  But  in  human  beings, 
as  well  as  in  animals,  activity  displays  a  "fatigue  curve." 
The  repeated  stimulation  of  certain  muscles  produces 
fatigue  toxins  which  impair  the  efficiency  of  response  and 
make  further  stimulation  painful.  Of  the  causes  of  this  les- 
sened functional  efficiency  we  may  quote  from  Miss  Gold- 
mark's  painstaking  study: 

During  activity,  as  will  be  shown  later,  the  products  of  chemical 
change  increase.  A  tired  person  is  literally  and  actually  a  poisoned 
person  —  poisoned  by  his  own  waste  products.  But  so  marvellously 
is  the  body  constructed  that,  like  a  running  stream,  it  purifies  itself, 
and  during  repose  these  toxic  impurities  are  normally  burned  up  by 
the  oxygen  brought  by  the  blood,  excreted  by  the  kidneys,  destroyed 
in  the  liver,  or  eliminated  from  the  body  through  the  lungs.  So  rest 
repaires  fatigue.1 

In  physical  activity,  therefore,  periods  of  lessened  activity 
or  change  of  activity,  or  nearly  complete  inactivity  as  in 
sleep,  are  not  only  desirable  but  necessary,  if  efficiency  is  to  be 
maintained.  The  demand  for  rest  is  an  imperative  physio- 
logical demand.  The  amount  of  recuperation  demanded  by 
the  organism  varies  in  different  individuals,  but  that  there  are 
certain  limits  of  human  productivity  has  been  made  increas- 
ingly clear  by  a  careful  study  of  the  effects  of  fatigue  upon 
output  in  industrial  occupations.  Repeatedly,  the  shortening 
of  working  hours,  especially  when  they  have  previously  num- 
bered more  than  eight,  has  been  found  to  be  correlated  with 
an  increase  in  efficiency.  Likewise,  the  provision  of  rest  pe- 
riods as  in  telephone-operating  and  the  needle  trades,  has  in 
nearly  every  case  increased  the  amount  and  quality  of  the 
work  performed.  The  human  machine  in  order  to  be  most 
effective  cannot  be  pressed  too  hard.  A  striking  illustration 
was  offered  in  England  at  the  beginning  of  the  war.  Under 
pressure  of  war  necessity,  the  munition  factories  relaxed  all 

1  Golclinark,  J.:  Fatigue  and  Efficiency,  p.  13. 


THE  BASIC  HUMAN  ACTIVITIES  77 

restrictions  on  working  hours  and  operated  on  a  seven-day 
week.  The  folly  of  this  procedure  was  tersely  summarized  by 
the  British  Commission  investigating  industrial  fatigue, 
which  reported:  "  It  is  almost  a  commonplace  that  seven  days' 
labor  produces  six  days'  output." 

In  the  study  of  industrial  conditions,  the  effects  of  pro- 
longed and  repeated  fatigue  upon  output  have  not  been  the 
only  features  taken  into  consideration.  Not  only  are  there 
immediately  observable  effects  in  the  decreased  output  of  the 
worker,  but  fatigue  means,  among  other  things,  general  loss 
of  control.  This  has  the  effect  of  producing  on  the  part  of 
overworked  factory  hands  dissipation  and  overstimulation  in 
free  time,  with  a  consequent  permanent  impairment  of  effi- 
ciency.1 Both  for  the  laborer  himself  and  for  the  efficiency 
of  the  industrial  system,  it  has  been  increasingly  recognized 
that  limitation  of  working  hours  is  imperatively  demanded. 
Rest  is  as  fundamental  a  need  as  food,  and  its  deprivation 
almost  as  serious  in  its  effects. 

Nervous  and  mental  fatigue.  The  conditions  of  nervous 
and  mental  fatigue  have  been  less  adequately  studied  than 
the  types  of  purely  physiological  fatigue  just  discussed.  It  is 
difficult  in  experiments  to  discount  the  effects  of  muscular 
fatigue,  and  to  discover  how  far  there  is  really  impairment  of 
nervous  tissue  and  functions.  Experimental  studies  do  show 
that  "nervous  fatigue  is  an  undoubted  fact"  2  and  that  "we 
cannot  deny  fatigue  to  the  psychic  centers"  8  which,  like  any 
other  part  of  the  organism  are  subject  to  deterioration  by 
fatigue  toxins.  Most  students  report,  however,  a  higher  de- 
gree of  resistance  to  fatigue  in  the  nerve  fibers  than  in  the 
muscles,  and  a  like  high  resistance  to  fatigue  in  the  brain 
centers.4 

1  For  a  striking  array  of  testimony  on  this  point  see  Goldmark:  loc.  cii., 
pp.  220-35. 

1  Frederick  S.  Lee:  "  Physical  Exercise  from  the  Standpoint  of  Physiology," 
Science,  N.S.,  vol.  xxrx,  no.  744,  p.  525. 

1  Lee:  Fatigue.     Harvey  Lectures,  1905-06,  p.  180. 

4  For  a  summary  of  nervous  fatigue  and  extensive  bibliography,  see  Gold- 
mark:  loc.  tit.,  p.  32.  . 


78  HUMAN  TRAITS 

The  conditions  of  mental  fatigue,  however,  can  be  by  no 
means  as  simply  described  as  those  of  physical  fatigue.  Elab- 
orate experiments  by  Professor  Thorndike  and  others  tend  to 
show  that,  in  the  strictest  sense  of  the  term,  there  is  no  such 
thing  as  mental  fatigue.  That  is,  any  mental  function  may 
be  performed  for  several  hours  with  the  most  negligible  de- 
crease in  the  efficiency  of  the  results  attained.  The  subject  of 
one  experiment  kept  continuously  for  seven  hours  performing 
mental  multiplications  of  four-place  numbers  by  four-place 
numbers  with  scarcely  any  perceptible  decrease  in  speed  or 
accuracy  in  results.1  Professor  Thorndike  draws  from  this 
and  similar  experiments  the  conclusion  that  it  is  practically 
impossible  to  impair  the  efficiency  of  any  mental  function  as 
such.  What  happens  when  we  say  our  mental  efficiency  is 
being  impaired  is  rather  that  we  will  not  than  that  we  cannot 
perform  any  given  mental  function.  The  causes  of  loss  of 
efficiency  are  rather  competing  impulses  2  than  fatigue  in 
specific  mental  functions.  We  are  tired  of  the  work,  not  by 
it.  Continuous  mental  work  of  any  given  kind,  writing  a 
book,  solving  problems  in  calculus,  translating  French,  etc., 
involves  our  being  withheld  from  other  activities,  games, 
music,  or  companionship,  to  which  by  force  of  habit  or  in- 
stinct, we  are  diverted,  and  diverted  more  acutely  the  more 
we  remain  at  a  fixed  task.  That  it  is  not  mental "  fatigue  "  so 
much  as  distraction  that  prevents  us  from  persisting  at  work 
is  evidenced  in  the  longer  time  we  can  stick  to  work  that 
really  interests  us  than  to  tasks  in  which  we  have  only  a  per- 
functory or  compulsory  interest.  The  college  student  who  is 
"too  dead  tired"  to  stay  up  studying  trigonometry  will, 
though  hi  the  same  condition,  stay  up  studying  football 
strategy,  rehearsing  for  a  varsity  show,  or  getting  out  the 
next  morning's  edition  of  his  college  paper.  "If  each  man 
did  the  mental  work  for  which  he  was  fit,  and  which  he  en- 
joyed, men  would  work  willingly  much  longer  than  they  now 

1  T.  Arai:  Mental  Fatigue. 

*  Thorndike:  Educational  Psychology,  Briefer  Course,  p.  322. 


THE  BASIC  HUMAN  ACTIVITIES  79 

do."  *  The  effects  of  mental  fatigue  are,  when  analyzed,  due 
chiefly  to  the  physically  injurious  effects  that  do,  but  do  not 
necessarily,  accompany  mental  work. 

T  Proper  air  and  light,  proper  posture  and  physical  exercise,  enough 
food  and  sleep,  and  work  whose  purpose  is  rational,  whose  difficulty 
is  adapted  to  one's  powers,  and  whose  rewards  are  just,  should  be 
tried  before  recourse  to  the  abandonment  of  work  itself.  It  is  indeed 
doubtful  if  sheer  rest  is  the  appropriate  remedy  for  a  hundredth  part 
of  the  injuries  that  result  from  mental  work  in  our  present  irrational 
conduct  of  it.1 

The  study  of  the  conditions  of  mental  work  seems  to  reveal, 
in  brief,  that  the  conditions  of  fatigue  are  essentially  physical 
in  character.  Given  adequate  physical  conditions,  in  particu- 
lar guarding  against  eye-strain,  over-excitement  (which  means 
distraction  from  the  work  in  hand),  and  loss  of  sleep,  mental 
work  is  itself  peculiarly  unaffected  by  fatigue  conditions.  The 
degree  in  which  mental  work  can  be  persisted  in  depends, 
therefore,  other  things  being  equal,  on  the  individual's  own 
interests,  the  number  and  intensity  of  rival  interests  which 
persist  during  a  given  piece  of  mental  work,  and  the  habits  of 
mind  with  which  the  individual  approaches  his  work. 

The  experimental  demonstration  that  so-called  mental 
fatigue  is  largely  physical  in  its  conditions  has  thus  a  dual 
significance.  It  indicates  how  arduous  and  persistent  mental 
endeavor  may  be  and  how  wide  are  the  possibilities  of  intellec- 
tual accomplishment.  It  is  an  important  fact  for  human  life 
that  the  brain  is  possibly  the  most  tireless  part  of  the  human 
machine.  What  seems  to  be  mental  fatigue  can  be  materially 
reduced  if  the  physical  conditions  under  which  studying, 
writing,  and  all  other  kinds  of  mental  work  are  performed  are 
carefully  regulated.  Another  large  part  of  what  passes  for 
mental  fatigue  will  be  removed  if  the  individual  becomes 
trained  to  a  reflective  appreciation  of  the  end  of  his  work.  A 
habit  of  alert  and  conscious  attention,  if  it  is  really  habitual, 

1  Thorndike:  Educational  Psychology,  Briefer  Course,  p.  320. 
«  Ibid.,  p.  328. 


80  HUMAN  TRAITS 

will  enable  one  to  persist  at  work  in  the  face  of  tempting  dis- 
tractions. Learning  to  "tend  to  business"  by  an  intelligent 
application  to  the  aims  of  the  work  to  be  done,  will  be  a 
healthy  antidote  against  that  yielding  to  every  dissuading 
impulse  which  so  often  passes  for  mental  weariness. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  SOCIAL  NATURE  OF  MAN 

Man  as  a  social  being.  Man  has  long  been  defined  as  the 
"social  animal,"  and  it  is  certainly  characteristic  of  human 
activity  that  it  takes  place  largely  with  reference  to  other  peo- 
ple. Many  of  man's  native  tendencies,  such  as  those  of  sex, 
self-assertiveness,  and  the  like,  require  the  presence  and  con- 
tact of  other  people  for  their  operation.  Nineteenth-century 
philosophers  attempted  frequently  to  explain  how  individuals 
who  were  natively  self-seeking  ever  came  to  act  socially.  The 
solution  to  this  problem  was  usually  found  in  the  fact  that  pre- 
cisely those  self-seeking  and  self-preservation  instincts  which 
governed  man's  activity  could  not  find  satisfaction  except 
through  cooperation  with  a  group.  All  man's  social  activity 
was  conceived  as  purely  instrumental  to  the  gratification  of 
his  own  egoistic  desires.  Man  got  on  with  his  fellows  simply 
because  he  could  not  get  on  without  them.  We  shall  see  that, 
in  the  light  of  the  specific  and  natural  tendencies  toward  so- 
cial behavior  which  are  part  of  man's  original  equipment,  this 
sharp  psychological  isolation  between  the  individual  and  the 
group  is  an  altogether  unwarranted  assumption.  For  it  is 
just  as  native  to  man  to  act  socially  as  it  is  for  him  to  be  hun- 
gry, or  curious,  or  afraid.  The  element  of  truth  hi  the  nine- 
teenth-century exaggeration  of  man's  individuality  lies  in  the 
fact  that  social  activity  is  partly  brought  about  in  the  satis- 
faction of  the  more  egoistic  impulses  of  the  individual.  "  The 
fear  motive  drives  men  together  in  times  of  insecurity;  the 
pugnacity  motive  bands  them  together  for  group  combat;  the 
economic  motive  brings  industrial  cooperation  and  organiza- 
tion; the  self-assertive  and  submissive  tendencies  bring  emu- 
lation as  well  as  obedience;  the  expansion  of  the  self  to  cover 
one's  family,  one's  clique,  one's  class,  one's  country  contrib- 


82  HUMAN  TRAITS 

utes  to  loyalty;  while  the  parental  instinct,  expanding  its 
scope  to  cover  others  besides  children  who  are  helpless,  leads 
to  self-sacrifice  and  altruism."  l 

The  fact  is,  however,  that  while  social  activity  is  promoted 
because  individuals  find  in  cooperation  the  possibility  of  the 
satisfaction  of  their  egoistic  desires,  social  activity  is  prima- 
rily brought  about  through  the  specifically  social  tendencies 
which  are  part  of  our  native  equipment.  It  is  with  these 
natural  bases  of  social  activity  that  we  shall  in  this  chapter  be 
particularly  concerned.  We  shall  have  to  take  note,  in  the 
first  place,  of  a  native  tendency  to  be  with  other  people,  to 
feel  an  unlearned  sense  of  comfort  in  their  presence,  and  un- 
easiness if  too  much  separated  from  them,  physically,  or  in 
action,  feeling,  or  thought.  Human  beings  tend,  further- 
more, to  reproduce  sympathetically  the  emotions  of  others, 
especially  those  of  then"  own  social  and  economic  groups. 
Thirdly,  man's  conduct  is  natively  social  in  that  he  is  by  na- 
ture specifically  sensitive  to  praise  and  blame,  that  he  will 
modify  his  conduct  so  as  to  secure  the  one  and  avoid  the 
other.  Finally,  besides  the  specific  tendencies  to  respond  to 
the  presence,  the  feelings,  the  actions,  and  the  thoughts  of 
others,  man  displays  a  "capacity  for  social  behavior."  And, 
as  is  the  case  with  all  native  capacities,  man  has,  therefore,  a 
native  interest  in  group  or  social  activity  for  its  own  sake. 

The  predominantly  social  character  of  human  behavior  has 
thus  a  twofold  explanation.  It  is  based,  in  the  first  place,  on 
the  group  of  native  tendencies  of  a  social  character  to  which 
we  have  already  referred.  It  is  based,  secondly,  on  the  neces- 
sity for  group  activity  and  cooperation  which  the  individual 
experiences  in  the  satisfaction  of  his  egoistic  impulses  and  de- 
sires. Man,  because  of  his  original  tendencies,  wants  to  live, 
act,  think,  and  feel  with  others;  for  the  satisfaction  of  his  non- 
social  impulses  he  must  live  with  others.  And  in  civilized 
society  human  action  from  almost  earliest  childhood  is  in,  and 
with  reference  to,  a  group.  Human  behavior  is  thus  seen  to 

1  R.  8.  Woodworth:  Dynamic  Psychology,  p.  204. 


THE  SOCIAL  NATURE  OF  MAN  83 

be  that  of  an  essentially  social  nature  acting  in  an  essentially 
social  environment.  And,  as  in  the  case  of  other  instinctive 
and  habitual  activities,  human  beings  experience  in  social 
activity  an  immediate  satisfaction  apart  from  any  satisfac- 
tions toward  which  it  may  be  the  instrument. 

Gregariousness.  The  "herd  instinct"  is  manifested  by 
many  animals  very  low  in  the  scale  of  animal  development. 
McDougall  quotes  in  this  connection  Francis  Galton's  clas- 
sical account  of  this  instinct  in  its  crudest  form:  "Describ- 
ing the  South  African  ox  in  Damaraland,  he  says  he  displays 
no  affection  for  his  fellows,  and  hardly  seems  to  notice  their 
existence,  so  long  as  he  is  among  them;  but,  if  he  becomes 
separated  from  the  herd,  he  displays  an  extreme  distress  that 
will  not  let  him  rest  until  he  succeeds  in  rejoining  it,  when  he 
hastens  to  bury  himself  in  the  midst  of  it,  seeking  the  closest 
possible  contact  with  the  bodies  of  his  fellows."  l 

This  original  tendency  exhibits  itself  among  human  beings 
in  a  variety  of  ways.  The  tendency  of  human  beings  to  herd 
together,  for  which  there  is  evidence  in  the  earliest  history  of 
the  race,  may  be  observed  on  any  crowded  thoroughfare,  or 
in  any  amusement  park,  or  city.  That  group  life  has  ex- 
panded partly  through  practical  necessity,  is,  of  course,  true, 
but  groups  of  humans  tend  to  become,  as  in  our  monster  cit- 
ies, larger  than  they  need  be,  or  can  be  for  economic  efficiency. 

The  fascination  of  city  life  has  not  infrequently  been  set 
down  to  the  multiplicity  of  opportunities  offered  in  the  way 
of  companions,  amusements,  and  occupations  after  one's  own 
taste.  But  the  fascination  has  clearly  a  more  instinctive 
basis,  the  desire  to  be  with  other  people.  Many  a  man,  as 
has  been  pointed  out,  lives  in  a  large  city  as  unsociable  and 
secluded  a  life  as  if  he  were  surrounded  by  miles  of  mountain 
or  prairie,  who  yet  could  not  be  happy  elsewhere.  Any  one 
who  has  failed  to  be  amused  by  a  really  good  comedy  when 
the  theater  was  comparatively  empty,  or  in  the  presence  of 
thousands  of  others  hugely  enjoyed  a  second-rate  baseball 

1  McDougall:  Social  Psychology,  p.  84. 


84  HUMAN  TRAITS 

game,  or  gone  down  to  the  crowded  shopping  district  to  get 
what  he  could  have  purchased  on  a  side-street  uptown,  can 
appreciate  how  instinctive  is  this  undiscriminating  desire  for 
companionship. 

The  native  intensity  of  this  desire  is  what  makes  rural 
isolation,  on  the  other  hand,  so  unsatisfactory.  The  bleak- 
ness of  New  England  country  life  as  pictured  in  Edith 
Wharton's  Ethan  Frome,  or  in  some  of  Robert  Frost's  North 
of  Boston,  is  due  more  than  anything  else  to  this  privation 
from  companionship.  Perhaps  nothing  better  could  be  said 
for  the  rural  telephone,  the  interurban  trolley,  and  the  cheap 
automobile  than  that  they  make  possible  the  fulfillment  of 
this  normal  human  longing  to  be  near  and  with  other  people 
in  body  and  spirit.  The  horror  which  makes  it  practically 
impossible  in  civilized  countries  to  legalize  punishment  by 
solitary  confinement  and  the  nervous  collapse  which  such 
confinement  brings  about  are  indications  of  how  deep-seated 
is  this  desire. 

The  "herd  instinct,"  like  all  the  other  of  man's  original 
tendencies,  is  educable.  It  can  be  trained  to  respond  to 
groups  of  various  sizes  and  kinds.  In  its  simplest  manifesta- 
tion it  tends  to  be  aroused  by  the  family,  but  in  the  history 
of  civilization  the  group  tends  progressively  to  enlarge.  The 
family,  the  town,  the  nation  —  the  gregarious  instinct  may  be 
educated  to  respond  to  these  ever-widening  groups.  The 
intensity  and  controlling  power  of  this  instinct  over  our  ac- 
tions seems  to  vary  with  the  degree  of  intimacy  and  inter- 
communication between  the  individual  and  the  group.  In 
primitive  society  it  is  most  intense  among  the  family  and 
clan,  and  the  family  still  remains  in  civilized  society,  certainly 
in  rural  districts,  a  very  closely  knit  primary  group.  But  as 
intercommunication  widens,  a  sense  of  attachment  to  and 
solidarity  with  a  larger  group  begins  to  make  itself  felt.  That 
intercommunication  is  largely  important  in  extending  the 
group  in  response  to  which  the  herd  instinct  may  be  aroused, 
is  well  illustrated  by  the  utter  lack  of  national  group  feeling 


THE  SOCIAL  NATURE  OF  MAN  85 

exhibited  during  the  Great  War  by  recruits  drafted  from  the 
backwoods  districts  where  they  had  been  tied  by  no  railroads 
or  newspapers  to  the  national  civilization  of  which  they  were 
a  part. 

The  devotion  of  generous-hearted  souls  to  "lost  causes," 
whether  political  or  religious,  of  the  individual  to  his  family 
or  friends  hi  the  face  of  personal  privation,  are  classic  illus- 
trations of  the  power  of  men's  gregarious  instinct  even  in  the 
face  of  the  dictates  of  reason.  In  the  perhaps  extreme  but 
nevertheless  suggestive  statement  of  Mr.  Trotter: 

He  [manj  is  more  sensitive  to  the  voice  of  the  herd  than  to  any 
other  influence.  It  can  inhibit  or  stimulate  his  thought  and  conduct. 
It  is  the  source  of  his  moral  codes,  of  the  sanctions  of  his  ethics  and 
philosophy.  It  can  endow  him  with  energy,  courage  and  endurance, 
and  can  as  easily  take  these  away.  It  can  make  him  acquiesce  in  his 
own  punishment,  and  embrace  his  executioner,  submit  to  poverty, 
bow  to  tyranny,  and  sink  without  complaint  under  starvation.  Not 
merely  can  it  make  him  accept  hardship  and  suffering  unresistingly, 
but  it  can  make  him  accept  as  truth  the  explanation  that  his  per- 
fectly preventable  afflictions  are  sublimely  just  and  gentle.  It  is 
this  acme  of  the  power  of  herd  suggestion  that  is  perhaps  the  most 
absolutely  incontestable  proof  of  the  profoundly  gregarious  nature 
of  man.1 

To  how  large  a  group  the  individual  can  respond  with  spon- 
taneous and  instinctive  loyalty  is  questionable.  The  small 
child  throws  out  his  arms  and  exclaims  passionately,  "I  love 
the  whole  world."  Auguste  Comte  could  be  imbued  with  a 
fervor  for  "humanity  "  in  the  abstract.  The  idea  of  a  League 
of  Nations  arouses  in  some  minds  a  passionate  devotion  to  a 
world  order  that  to  those  themselves  habituated  to  an  intense 
loyalty  to  the  national  group  seems  incredible.  Certainly  it  is 
true  that  we  rapidly  outgrow  that  state  of  mind  common  to 
enthusiastic  adolescence  when  we  can  develop  a  love  for  the 
universe  in  the  abstract.  The  instinct  of  gregariousness 
seems  unquestionably  to  be  most  intense  where  there  is  in- 
timacy and  vividness  of  group  association.  The  primary 

i  Trotter:  Instincts  of  the  Herd  in  Peace  and  War,  pp.  114-15. 


86  HUMAN  TRAITS 

groups,  as  Professor  Ross  calls  them,  are  face-to-face  associ- 
ations, the  family,  the  play  group,  the  neighborhood  group. 
If  "world  patriotism"  is  a  possibility,  it  is  because  rapid 
communication  and  the  frequency  of  travel,  and  the  educa- 
tion of  the  industrial  classes  to  "the  international  mind"  tend 
to  break  down  barriers  and  to  make  distant  countries  and 
persons  vivid  and  directly  imaginable.  But  there  seems  to  be 
no  substitute  for  direct  personal  contact.  Even  devotion  to 
a  country  tends  to  take  the  form  of  phrases,  places,  persons, 
and  symbols,  to  which  we  have  been  familiarized. 

Gregariousness  important  for  social  solidarity.  The  gre- 
garious instinct,  powerful  as  it  is,  is  of  the  greatest  significance 
for  social  solidarity,  and,  if  misdirected,  for  seriously  limiting 
it.  It  is,  in  the  first  place,  the  trait  without  which  social 
solidarity  would  be  almost  impossible.  "  In  early  times  when 
population  was  scanty,  it  must  have  played  an  important 
part  in  social  evolution  by  keeping  men  together,  and  thereby 
occasioning  the  need  for  social  laws  and  institutions."  1  The 
coherence  of  national,  political,  or  religious  groups  depends 
primarily  on  the  extent  to  which  the  gregarious  instinct  may 
be  aroused.  Allegiance  to  a  group  may,  of  course,  be  secured 
through  participation  in  common  ideals.  This  is  illustrated 
in  the  case  of  the  numerous  literary  and  scientific  associations 
that  cut  across  national  boundaries  and  knit  into  groups  sim- 
ilarly interested  persons  all  over  the  world.  Groups  may, 
again,  be  formed  through  common  economic  interests,  as  in 
the  case  of  labor  unions,  or  employers'  associations.  Groups 
may  be  knit  and  strengthened  through  law  and  custom.  And 
all  these  factors  play  a  smaller  or  larger  part  in  any  important 
grouping  of  men  in  contemporary  society.  But  unless  there 
is,  on  the  part  of  the  members  of  the  group,  a  deep-seated 
emotional  attachment  to  the  group  itself,  solidarity  will  be 
very  precarious.  The  intensity  and  solidarity  of  feeling 
exhibited  so  markedly  during  war-time  is  made  possible  by 
the  intense  excitability  of  this  instinct  when  the  group  is 

1  McDougall:  Social  Psychology,  p.  301. 


THE  SOCIAL  NATURE  OF  MAN  87 

under  conditions  of  stress  or  danger.  Any  scheme  for  enlist- 
ing a  great  number  of  individuals  in  modern  society  in  a 
scheme  of  social  reform  or  improvement,  must  and  does, 
when  it  is  successful,  arouse  in  him  a  heightened  sense  of  loy- 
alty to  a  group  more  than  reasoned  approval  of  a  cause. 
Effective  recruiting  posters  more  often  told  the  passer-by, 
"Your  country  needs  you,"  than  they  attempted  to  convince 
him  in  black-and-white  logic  of  the  justice  of  his  country's 
aims. 

Gregariousness  may  hinder  the  solidarity  of  large  groups. 
While  gregariousness  is  the  foundation  of  group  solidarity,  it 
also  interferes  with  the  solidarity  of  large  groups,  and  not  in- 
frequently brings  about  conflicts  between  them,  and  within 
groups  themselves.  Within  even  so  small  a  community  as 
a  college  class,  cliques  may  form;  and  so  in  a  country,  at- 
tachment to  the  smaller  group  may  inhibit  attachment  to 
the  larger.  An  individual  may  be  vaguely  patriotic,  but  in- 
stinctively aroused  more  by  his  own  economic  or  local  or 
racial  group  than  by  the  country  as  a  whole.  A  man  may  at 
heart  be  more  devoted  to  his  town  or  home  than  to  the  United 
States.  (Not  infrequently  his  town  or  home  is  what  the 
United  States  means  to  the  citizen.)  Even  to-day  the  sec- 
tional feeling  that  exists  in  many  parts  of  the  country  cannot 
be  completely  explained  as  occurring  through  separate  eco- 
nomic interests.  The  division  of  classes  within  a  country  is 
largely  an  economic  matter,  but  even  in  such  a  situation  a 
loyalty  develops  to  the  class  as  a  class  or  group. 

Again,  the  same  instinct  to  herd  with  his  fellows  that  makes 
a  man  intensely  loyal  to  his  own  group  may  operate  to  make 
him  indifferent  to  the  difficulties  or  jealous  and  suspicious  of 
the  aims  of  others  Gregariousness  is  the  basis  not  only  of 
patriotism,  but  of  chauvinism,  not  only  of  civic  pride,  but  of 
provincialism.  The  narrowness  and  parochialism  of  group 
attachments  is  most  pronounced  where  groups  and  communi- 
ties are  rigidly  set  off  one  from  another.  In  such  circumstances 
community  of  feeling  and  understanding  is  largely  reduced. 


88  HUMAN  TRAITS 

This  may  be  seen  even  under  contemporary  conditions  in  the 
comparatively  complete  inability  of  different  professional, 
social,  and  economic  groups  within  the  same  society  to  under- 
stand each  other,  and  the  proverbial  ignorance  and  careless- 
ness of  one  half  of  the  population  as  to  "how  the  other  half 
lives."  Narrowness  of  group  feeling  tends  to  grow  less  pro- 
nounced under  the  mobile  conditions  of  modern  industry, 
communication,  and  education.  Trade  relations  knit  the 
farthest  parts  of  the  globe  together;  this  morning's  newspaper 
puts  us  hi  touch  with  the  whole  of  mankind.  We  have  out- 
grown the  days  when  every  stranger  was  an  enemy.  But 
though  the  barriers  between  nations  are  tending  to  break 
down,  within  nations  individuals  tend,  as  they  grow  older,  to 
experience  an  insulated  devotion  to  their  own  set  or  social 
group,  a  callous  oblivion  to  the  needs  and  desires  of  that  great 
majority  of  mankind  with  whom  they  have  a  less  keen  sense 
of  "consciousness  of  kind." 

Gregariousness  in  belief.  Man's  gregarious  character,  as 
already  pointed  out,  is  manifested  not  only  in  his  desire  to  be 
physically  with  his  fellows,  but  to  be  at  one  with  them  in  their 
actions,  feelings,  and  thoughts.  Beliefs  once  established  tend 
to  remain  established  if  for  no  other  reason  than  that  they  are 
believed  in  by  the  majority.  That  an  opinion  gams  prestige 
merely  because  we  know  other  people  believe  it,  is  frequently 
illustrated  by  the  facility  with  which  rumor  travels.  At  the 
end  of  the  Great  War,  it  will  be  recalled,  the  false  news  of  the 
armistice  report  flew  from  mouth  to  mouth  and  was  accepted 
with  the  most  amazing  credulity  simply  because  "everybody 
said  so."  The  spread  of  superstitions  and  old  wives'  tales  and 
then-  long  lingering  in  the  minds  even  of  intelligent  people  is 
testimony  that  men  tend  mentally  as  well  as  physically  to 
herd  together. 

The  tendency  to  find  comfort  in  the  presence  of  one's  fel- 
lows and  uneasiness  if  too  much  separated  from  them,  is  as 
pronounced  hi  the  sphere  of  moral  and  intellectual  relations 
as  it  is  in  the  case  of  merely  physical  proximity.  We  like  to 


THE  SOCIAL  NATURE  OF  MAN  89 

be  one  of  a  crowd  in  our  opinions  and  beliefs,  as  well  as  in  our 
persons.  There  is  hardly  anything  more  painful  than  the 
sense  of  being  utterly  alone  hi  one's  opinions.  Even  the  ex- 
treme dissenter  from  the  accustomed  ways  of  thinking  and 
feeling  of  the  majority  is  associated  with  or  pictures  some 
little  group  which  agrees  with  him.  And,  if  we  cannot  find 
contemporaries  to  share  our  extreme  opinions,  we  at  least 
imagine  some  ideal  group  now  or  in  posterity  to  share  it  with 
us. 

Gregariousness  in  habits  of  action.  But  if  men  tend  to 
think  hi  groups  they  tend  more  emphatically  still  to  act  in 
groups,  to  be  acutely  uncomfortable  when  acting  in  a  fashion 
different  from  that  customary  among  the  majority  of  their 
fellows.  Habits  of  action  are  more  deep-seated  physiologically 
than  habits  of  thought  (which  is  one  reason  why  our  theories 
are  so  often  in  advance  of  our  practice).  People  will  accede 
intellectually  to  new  ideas  which  they  would  not  and  could 
not  practice,  the  mind  being,  as  it  were,  more  convertible 
than  the  emotions.  Even  in  minor  matters,  in  dress,  speech, 
and  manners,  we  like  to  do  the  accustomed  thing.  It  is  more 
painful  for  most  people  to  use  the  wrong  fork  at  dinner,  or 
to  be  dressed  in  a  business  suit  where  every  one  else  is  in 
evening  clothes,  than  to  commit  a  fallacy,  or  to  act  upon 
prejudices  rather  than  upon  logical  conclusions. 

The  individual's  instinctive  desire  to  be  identical  hi  action 
with  other  members  of  his  group,  from  the  collars  and  clothes 
he  wears  to  the  way  he  brings  up  his  children,  is  greatly  rein- 
forced by  the  punishment  meted  out  to  those  who  differ  from 
the  majority.  This  may  vary  from  ridicule,  as  in  the  case  of 
the  laughter  that  greets  the  poet's  proverbial  long  hair  and 
flowing  tie,  the  foreigner's  accent,  or  a  straw  hat  hi  April,  to 
the  confinement  and  privation  that  are  the  penalties  for  any 
marked  infringement  of  the  accepted  modes  of  life.  Even 
when  the  punishments  are  slight,  they  are  effective.  A  man 
who  has  no  moral  or  religious  scruples  with  reference  to  gam- 
bling on  any  day  of  the  week  will,  to  avoid  the  social  ostracism 


90  HUMAN  TRAITS 

of  his  neighbors,  refrain  from  playing  cards  on  his  front  porch 
on  Sunday.  For  no  other  reason  than  to  avoid  being  con- 
sciously different,  many  a  man  will  not  wear  cool  white 
clothes  on  a  hot  day  in  his  office  who  will  wear  them  on  a  cool 
evening  at  the  seashore. 

The  effect  of  gregariousness  on  innovation.  A  strong  in- 
stinctive tendency  to  community  of  action  and  thought  is  in 
large  part  responsible  for  the  comparative  absence  of  inno- 
vation in\  either  of  these  fields.  A  premium  is  put  upon  the 
conventional,  the  customary,  the  common,  both  in  the  instinc- 
tive satisfaction  they  give  the  individual,  and  in  the  high 
value  set  upon  them  by  society.  In  advanced  societies,  how- 
ever, the  habit  of  inquiry  and  originality  may  itself  come  to 
be  endorsed  by  the  majority,  as  it  is  among  scientists  and 
artists.  The  herd  instinct  need  not  always  act  on  the  side  of 
unreason.  Among  the  intellectual  classes,  it  is  already  en- 
listed on  the  side  of  free  inquiry,  which  among  scholars  is  the 
fundamental  common  habit. 

If  rationality  were  once  to  become  really  respectable,  if  we  feared 
the  entertaining  of  an  unverifiable  opinion  with  the  warmth  with 
which  we  fear  using  the  wrong  implement  at  the  dinner  table,  if  the 
thought  of  holding  a  prejudice  disgusted  us  as  does  a  foul  disease, 
then  the  dangers  of  man's  suggestibility  would  be  turned  into 
advantages.1 

Sympathy  (a  specialization  of  gregariousness).  Sympa- 
thy, in  the  strict  psychological  sense  of  the  term,  means  a 
"suffering  with,  the  experiencing  of  any  feeling  or  emotion 
when  and  because  we  observe  hi  other  persons  or  creatures 
the  expression  of  that  feeling  of  emotion."  2  The  behavior 
of  animals  exhibits  the  external  features  of  sympathetic  action 
very  clearly.  "Two  dogs  begin  to  growl  or  fight,  and  at  once 
all  the  dogs  within  sound  and  sight  stiffen  themselves,  and 
show  every  symptom  of  anger.  Or  one  beast  in  a  herd  stands 
arrested,  gazing  in  curiosity  on  some  unfamiliar  object,  and 
presently  his  fellows  also,  to  whom  the  object  may  be  invisi- 
1  Trotter:  loc.  cit.,  p.  45.  *  McDougall:  loc.  tit.,  p.  92. 


THE  SOCIAL  NATURE  OF  MAN  91 

ble,  display  curiosity  and  come  up  to  join  in  the  examination 
of  the  object."1 

Human  beings  tend  not  only  sympathetically  to  reproduce 
the  instinctive  actions  of  others,2  but  they  tend,  despite  them- 
selves, to  experience  directly  and  immediately,  often  involun- 
tarily, the  emotions  experienced  and  outwardly  manifested 
by  others.  Almost  every  one  has  had  his  mood  heightened 
to  at  least  kindly  joy  by  the  presence  in  a  crowded  street  car 
of  a  young  child  whose  inquiring  prattle  and  light-hearted 
laughter  were  subdued  by  the  gray  restraints  and  responsibili- 
ties of  maturity.  One  melancholy  face  can  crush  the  joy  of  a 
boisterous  and  cheerful  party;3  the  eagerness  and  enthusiasm 
of  an  orator  can,  irrespective  of  the  merits  of  the  cause  he  is 
defending,  provoke  eagerness  and  enthusiasm  for  the  same 
cause  among  an  audience  that  does  not  in  the  least  understand 
what  the  orator  is  talking  about. 

One  brand  of  cigarettes  was  recently  advertised  by  the 
face  of  a  young  soldier,  roguishly  irresponsible,  palpably  and 
completely  given  over  to  joy.  One  found  one's  self  trans- 
ported into  something  of  this  same  mood  before  one  had  a 
chance  to  speculate  at  all  as  to  whether  there  was  any  causal 
relation  between  the  specific  quality  of  tobacco  the  youngster 
was  smoking,  and  that  contagious,  undeniable  delight.  What 
is  called  personal  magnetism  is  perhaps  more  than  anything 
else  the  ability  to  provoke  in  others  sympathetic  experiences 
of  pleasant  and  exhilarating  emotions. 

Sensibility  to  the  emotions  of  others,  though  possessed  by 

1  McDougall:  loc.  cit.,  p.  93. 

1  "  In  man  infectious  laughter  or  yawning,  walking  in  step,  imitating  the 
movements  of  a  ropewalker,  while  watching  him,  feeling  a  shock  in  one's  legs 
when  one  sees  a  man  falling,  and  a  hundred  other  occurrences  of  this  kind  are 
cases  of  physiological  sympathy."  Ribot :  Psychology  of  the  Emotions,  p.  232. 

Reproduction  of  the  actions  of  others  has  by  a  certain  school  of  philosophers 
and  psychologists,  notably  Tarde,  Le  Bon,  and  Baldwin,  been  ascribed  to 
imitation.  But  no  experimental  researches  have  revealed  any  such  specific 
instinct  to  imitate  (see  Thorndike,  p.  73  ff.),  and  "imitations"  of  acts  can 
generally  be  traced  to  sympathy,  or  suggestion  —  which  is  sympathy  on  an 
intellectual  plane. 

1  Such  expressions  as  "kill  joy,"  "wet  blanket,"  "life  of  the  party"  are 
instances  of  the  popular  appreciation  of  the  fact  of  social  contagion. 


92  HUMAN  TRAITS 

almost  all  individuals,  varies  in  degree.  The  complete  ab- 
sence of  it  marks  a  man  out  as  "stolid,"  "cold,"  "callous," 
"brutal."  Such  a  type  of  personality  may  be  efficient  and 
successful  in  pursuits  requiring  nothing  besides  a  direct  analy- 
sis of  facts,  uncolored  by  any  irrelevant  access  of  feeling,  as  in 
the  case  of  mathematics  and  mechanics.  But  the  geniuses 
even  hi  strictly  intellectual  fields  have  frequently  been  men  of 
sensitiveness,  delicacy,  and  responsiveness  to  the  feelings  of 
others.  That  intellectual  analysis,  however,  does  frequently 
blunt  the  poignancy  of  feeling  is  illustrated  in  the  case  of  John 
Stuart  Mill,  who  writes  in  his  Autobiography: 

Analytic  habits  may  thus  even  strengthen  the  associations  be- 
tween causes  and  effects,  means  and  ends,  but  tend  altogether  to 
weaken  those  which  are,  to  speak  familiarly,  a  mere  matter  of  feeling. 
They  are,  therefore,  I  thought,  favorable  to  prudence  and  clear- 
sightedness, but  a  perpetual  worm  at  the  root  both  of  the  passions 
and  of  the  virtues;  and  above  all  fearfully  undermine  all  desires  and 
...  all  except  the  purely  physical  and  organic;  of  the  entire  insuffi- 
ciency of  which  to  make  life  desirable,  no  one  had  a  stronger  convic- 
tion than  I  had.  .  .  .  All  those  to  whom  I  looked  up  were  of  the  opin- 
ion that  the  pleasure  of  sympathy  with  human  beings,  and  the 
feelings  which  made  the  good  of  others,  and  especially  of  mankind 
on  a  large  scale,  the  object  of  existence,  were  the  greatest  and  surest 
sources  of  happiness.  Of  the  truth  of  this  I  was  convinced,  but  to 
know  that  a  feeling  would  make  me  happy  if  I  had  it,  did  not  give 
me  the  feeling.1 

A  generous  degree  of  susceptibility  to  the  emotions  of 
others  makes  a  man  what  is  variously  called  "mellow,"  "hu- 
mane," "large-hearted,"  "generous-souled."  The  possession 
of  such  susceptibility  is  an  asset,  first,  in  that  it  enriches  life 
for  its  possessor.  It  gives  him  a  warm  insight  into  the  feel- 
ings, emotions,  desires,  habits  of  mind  and  action  of  other 
people,  and  gives  to  his  experiences  with  them  a  vivid  and 
personal  significance  not  attainable  by  any  hollow  intellectual 
analysis.  It  is  an  asset,  moreover,  in  the  purely  utilitarian 
business  of  dealing  with  men.  The  statesman  or  executive 

1  Mill:  Autobiography  (Holt  edition),  p.  138. 


THE  SOCIAL  NATURE  OF  MAN  93 

who  deals  with  men  as  so  many  animate  machines,  may 
achieve  certain  mechanical  and  arbitrary  successes.  But  he 
will  be  missing  half  the  data  on  which  his  decisions  must  be 
based  if  he  does  not  have  a  live  and  sensitive  appreciation  of 
how  men  feel  when  placed  in  given  situations.  The  placing  of 
women  in  positions  of  labor  management  where  women  chiefly 
are  to  be  dealt  with  is  an  illustration  of  the  recognition  of  the 
importance  of  sympathy,  fellow-feeling  in  the  management 
of  human  affairs.  One  of  the  reasons  why  many  university 
scholars  make  poor  teachers  is  because  they  cannot  place 
themselves  back  at  the  point  where  a  subject  was  as  live  and 
fresh  and  virgin  to  them  as  it  is  to  their  students. 

An  extraordinary  degree  or  a  decided  hypertrophy  of  emo- 
tional susceptibility  is  as  dangerous  a  trait  as  its  possession  in 
a  reasonable  degree  is  a  utility  and  an  enrichment  of  life.  It 
results  in  the  hysteria  or  sentimentalism  which  adds  to  the 
real  evils  and  difficulties  of  life  fancied  grievances  and  dis- 
asters. Such  temperaments  when  confronted  with  any  good 
or  beautiful  action  dissolve  into  ecstasy,  and  when  faced  with 
a  problem  or  a  difficulty  dissolve  into  tears.  Doctors  will 
not  treat  their  own  children  because  the  overplus  of  sym- 
pathy is  a  hindrance  to  action.  Sentimental  ladies  are  not 
the  most  efficient  charity  workers  or  prisoner  reformers. 

While  there  is  a  general  tendency  to  experience  sympatheti- 
cally the  feelings  of  others,  this  becomes  specialized  in  most 
people,  and  one  tends  to  experience  most  immediately  and 
intensely  the  emotions  of  one's  own  kind,  physically,  socially, 
and  intellectually.  Sympathy  is  a  specialization  of  man's 
general  gregariousness,  and  becomes  more  specialized  as  one 
becomes  habituated  exclusively  to  a  small  group.  Within 
this  small  group,  individuals  not  only  experience  the  emo- 
tions of  others,  but  like  to  share  and  communicate  their  own 
emotions. 

The  nearer  people  are  to  us  in  mode  of  life,  social  status,  and 
intellectual  interests,  the  closer  is  community  of  feeling  and 
"consciousness  of  kind."  Two  Americans  meeting  in  a  for- 


94  HUMAN  TRAITS 

eign  country  have  a  quick  and  sympathetic  understanding  of 
each  other.  Two  alumni  of  the  same  college  meeting  in  a 
distant  city  have  a  common  basis  of  interest  and  feeling. 

This  easy  give-and-take  of  feeling  and  emotion  makes  the 
deep  attractiveness  of  intimate  companionship.  Our  com- 
panion has  but  to  mention  a  name  or  a  place,  and  we  experi- 
ence the  same  associations,  the  pleasures,  or  antipathies  which 
he  does.  A  gesture,  a  curious  glance  of  the  eye,  a  pause,  we 
understand  as  quickly  as  if  he  had  spoken  a  sentence.  But 
not  only  do  we  understand  his  feelings;  he  (or  she)  under- 
stands ours.  And  for  most  people,  all  their  interests  and  en- 
joyments are  heightened  by  the  presence  of  an  intimately 
known  companion. 

Many  children  manifest  very  clearly  this  tendency  of  active  sym- 
pathy; they  demand  that  their  every  emotion  shall  be  shared  at  once. 
"Oh,  come  and  look!"  is  their  constant  cry  when  out  for  a  walk,  and 
every  object  that  excites  their  curiosity  or  admiration  is  brought  at 
once,  or  pointed  out,  to  their  companion.  ...  On  the  other  hand, 
another  child,  brought  up,  perhaps,  under  identical  conditions,  but 
in  whom  this  impulse  is  relatively  weak,  will  explore  a  garden, 
interested  and  excited  for  hours  together,  without  once  feeling 
the  need  for  sympathy,  without  once  calling  on  others  to  share 
his  emotions.1 

In  adult  life,  few  people  care  to  go  to  theater  or  concert 
alone,  and  a  man  at  a  club  will  wander  half  through  the  dining- 
room  until  he  will  find  some  one  with  whom  he  will  feel  like 
sitting  through  a  dinner  conversation. 

The  fact  that  emotions  exhibited  in  one  individual  are  read- 
ily aroused  in  another  makes  art  possible  and  makes  it  inter- 
esting. A  poet  by  a  phrase,  a  musician  by  a  chord  or  melody, 
can  suddenly  reproduce  in  us  his  own  feeling  of  gayety  or 
exaltation.  A  painter  by  disposition  of  line  and  color  can 
suggest  the  majesty  of  mountains,  or  the  sadness  of  a  sunset 
as  he  himself  has  experienced  it.  In  novels  and  dramas  we 
can  relive  the  feelings  that  the  writer  imagines  to  have  been 

1  McDougall:  loc.  cit.,  p.  172. 


THE  SOCIAL  NATURE  OF  MAN  95 

experienced  by  others.  It  is  testimony  to  the  easy  excit- 
ability of  sympathy  as  well  as  to  an  artist's  skill  that  this  can 
sometimes  be  done  in  a  few  lines  or  paragraphs.  Witness  the 
famous  opening  of  Poe's  Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher: 

During  the  whole  of  a  dull,  dark,  and  soundless  day  in  the  autumn 
of  the  year,  when  the  clouds  hung  oppressively  low  in  the  heavens, 
I  had  been  passing  alone  on  horseback,  through  a  singularly  dreary 
tract  of  country;  and  at  length  found  myself,  as  the  shades  of  evening 
drew  on,  within  view  of  the  melancholy  House  of  Usher.  I  know  not 
how  it  was  —  but,  with  the  first  glimpse  of  the  building,  a  sense  of 
insufferable  gloom  pervaded  my  spirit.  I  say  insufferable;  for  the 
feeling  was  unrelieved  by  any  of  that  half-pleasurable,  because  poetic, 
sentiment,  with  which  the  mind  usually  receives  even  the  sternest 
natural  images  of  the  desolate  or  terrible.  I  looked  upon  the  scene 
before  me  —  upon  the  mere  house  and  the  simple  landscape  features 
of  the  domain,  upon  the  bleak  walls,  upon  the  vacant  eye-like  win- 
dows, upon  a  few  rank  sedges,  and  upon  a  few  white  trunks  of  de- 
cayed trees  —  with  an  utter  depression  of  soul  which  I  can  compare 
to  no  earthly  sensation  more  properly  than  to  the  after-dream  of  the 
reveller  upon  opium;  the  bitter  lapse  into  everyday  life,  the  hideous 
dropping  off  of  the  veil.  There  was  an  iciness,  a  sinking,  a  sickening 
of  the  heart,  an  unredeemed  dreariness  of  thought  which  no  goading 
of  the  imagination  could  torture  into  aught  of  the  sublime.  What 
was  it  —  I  paused  to  think  —  what  was  it  that  so  unnerved  me  in 
the  contemplation  of  the  House  of  Usher? 

To  Aristotle  tragedy  seemed  to  afford  a  cleansing  or 
"katharsis  of  the  soul"  through  the  sympathetic  experience 
of  pity  or  fear.  To  Schopenhauer  music  was  the  greatest  of 
the  arts  because  it  made  us  at  one  with  the  sorrows  and  the 
strivings  of  the  world.  All  the  representative  arts  are  vivid 
ways  of  making  us  feel  with  the  passions  or  emotions  that 
Btir  mankind.  And  those  men  are  poets,  painters,  or  musi- 
cians who,  besides  having  a  unique  gift  of  expression,  whether 
in  word,  tone,  or  color,  have  themselves  an  unusually  high 
sensitivity  to  the  moods  of  other  men  and  to  the  imagined 
moods  of  the  natural  scenes  among  which  they  move.1 

1  Poets  generally  are  so  susceptible  to  emotional  shades  and  nuances  that 
they  read  them  into  situations  where  they  are  not  present,  and  then  repro- 
duce them  sympathetically  in  their  works.  The  so-called  "  pathetic  fallacy  " 


96  HUMAN  TRAITS 

In  experience,  the  presence  or  absence  of  genuine  sympathy 
with  the  emotions  of  others  determines  to  no  small  extent  the 
character  of  our  dealings  with  them.  Even  courts  of  justice 
take  motives  into  account  and  juries  have  been  known  to  ask 
for  clemency  for  a  murderer  because  of  their  keen  realization 
of  the  provocation  which  he  had  undergone.  Fellow-feeling 
with  others  may  again  warp  our  judgments  or  soften  them; 
in  our  judgment  of  the  work  of  our  friends,  it  is  difficult  alto- 
gether to  discount  our  personal  interest  and  affection.  On 
the  other  hand,  we  may  have  the  most  sincere  admiration  and 
respect  for  a  man,  and  yet  be  seriously  hampered  in  our 
dealings  with  him,  socially  or  professionally,  by  a  total  lack 
of  sympathy  with  his  motives  and  desires. 

Praise  and  blame.  An  important  part  of  man's  social 
equipment  is  his  susceptibility  to  the  praise  and  blame  of  his 
fellows.  That  is,  among  the  things  which  instinctively  sat- 
isfy men  are  objective  marks  of  praise  or  approval  on  the  part 
of  other  people;  among  the  things  which  annoy  them,  some- 
times to  the  point  of  acute  distress,  are  marks  of  disapproval, 
scorn,  or  blame.  This  is  illustrated  most  simply  and  directly 
in  the  satisfaction  felt  at  "intimate  approval  as  by  smiles, 
pats,"  kindly  words,  or  epithets  applied  by  other  people  to 
one's  own  actions  or  ideas,  and  the  discomfort,  amounting 
sometimes  to  pain,  that  is  felt  at  frowns,  hoots,  sneers,  and 
epithets  of  scorn  or  derision.  One  student  of  this  subject 
notes  "as  early  as  the  fourth  month  a  'hurt'  way  of  crying 
which  seemed  to  indicate  a  sense  of  personal  slight.  It  was 
quite  different  from  the  cry  of  pain  or  that  of  anger,  but 
seemed  about  the  same  as  the  cry  of  fright.  The  slightest 
tone  of  reproof  would  produce  it.  On  the  other  hand,  if 
people  took  notice  and  laughed  and  encouraged,  she  was 
hilarious."  1 

Man's  sensitiveness  to  praise  and  blame  is  paralleled  by  his 
instinctive  tendency  to  express  them. 

is  an  excellent  illustration  of  this.     Poets  sympathize  with  the  emotions  of  a 
landscape,  emotions  which  were,  in  the  first  place,  their  own. 
1  Cooley:  Human  Nature  and  the  Social  Order,  p.  166. 


THE  SOCIAL  NATURE  OF  MAN  97 

Smiles,  respectful  stares,  and  encouraging  shouts  occur,  I  think,  as 
instinctive  responses  to  relief  from  hunger,  rescue  from  fear,  gorgeous 
display,  instinctive  acts  of  strength  and  daring,  victory,  and  other 
impressive  instinctive  behavior  that  is  harmless  to  the  onlooker. 
Similarly,  frowns,  hoots,  and  sneers  seem  bound  as  original  responses 
to  the  observation  of  empty-handedness,  deformity,  physical  mean- 
ness, pusillanimity,  and  defect.  As  in  the  case  of  all  original  tend- 
encies, such  behavior  is  early  complicated  and  in  the  end  much  dis- 
torted, by  training;  but  the  resulting  total  cannot  be  explained  by 
nurture  alone.1 

Man's  instinctive  tendency  to  respond  to  praise  and  blame 
and  to  exhibit  them  is,  next  to  gregariousness  —  through 
which  men  in  the  first  place  are  able  to  live  together  —  the 
individual  human  trait  most  significant  for  social  life.  For 
while  the  desire  for  praise,  the  avoidance  of  blame,  and  the 
expression  of  both  are  instinctive,  the  occasions  on  which  they 
are  called  forth  depend  on  the  traditions  and  group  habits  to 
which  the  individual  has  been  exposed.  He  soon  learns  that 
in  the  society  in  which  he  is  living,  certain  acts  will  bring  him 
the  praise  of  others;  certain  other  acts  will  bring  him  their 
disapproval.  The  whole  scope  of  his  activity  may  thus  be 
profoundly  modified  by  the  penalties  and  prizes  in  the  way 
of  praise  and  blame  which  society  attaches  to  different  modes 
of  action.  And  the  more  explicit  and  outward  signs  there  are 
of  the  approval  or  scorn  of  others,  the  more  will  individual 
action  be  subject  to  social  control. 

As  Plato  said  so  long  ago  and  said  so  well: 

Whenever  they  [the  public]  crowd  to  the  popular  assembly,  the 
law  courts,  the  theaters,  the  camp,  or  any  public  gathering  of  large 
bodies,  and  there  sit  in  a  dense  and  uproarious  mass  to  censure  some 
of  the  things  said  or  done,  and  applaud  others,  always  in  excess; 
shouting  and  clapping,  until,  in  addition  to  their  own  noise,  the  rocks 
and  the  places  wherein  they  are  echo  back  redoubled  the  uproar  of 
their  censure  and  applause.  At  such  a  moment,  how  is  a  young  man, 
think  you,  to  retain  his  self-possession?  Can  any  private  education 
that  he  has  received  hold  out  against  such  a  torrent  of  censure  and 
applause,  and  avoid  being  swept  away  down  the  stream,  wherever  it 
1  Thorndike:  Educational  Psychology,  Briefer  Course,  pp.  32-33. 


98  HUMAN  TRAITS 

may  lead,  until  he  is  brought  to  adopt  the  language  of  these  men  as 
to  what  is  honorable  and  dishonorable,  and  to  imitate  all  their  prac- 
tices, and  to  become  their  very  counterpart?  l 

We  have  already  had  occasion  to  point  out  that  education  is 
the  method  by  which  society  inculcates  in  its  younger  mem- 
bers habits  which  are  regarded  as  socially  beneficial.  In  its 
broadest  sense  the  whole  social  environment  is  an  individual's 
education.  And  it  is  an  education  chiefly  through  experience 
with  other  people,  discovering  what  they  will  and  will  not 
tolerate,  what  they  will  cherish  and  what  they  will  condemn. 

The  elaborate  paraphernalia  and  rites  of  fashion  in  clothes  exist 
chiefly  by  virtue  of  their  value  as  means  of  securing  diffuse  notice 
and  approval.  The  primitive  sex  display  is  now  a  minor  cause: 
women  obviously  dress  for  other  women's  eyes.  Much  the  same  is 
true  of  subservience  to  fashions  in  furniture,  food,  manners,  morals, 
and  religion.  The  institution  of  tipping,  which  began,  perhaps,  in 
kindliness  and  was  fostered  by  economic  self-interest,  is  now  well-nigh 
impregnable  because  no  man  is  brave  enough  to  withstand  the  scorn 
of  a  line  of  lackeys  whom  he  heartily  despises,  or  of  a  few  onlookers 
whom  he  will  never  see  again.2 

One  of  the  things  we  mean  when  we  say  a  man  is  worldly- 
wise,  shrewd,  knows  human  nature,  is  that  he  knows  what 
will  win  people's  admiration,  and  knows,  moreover,  to  dis- 
tinguish between  that  which  they  publicly  condemn  and 
secretly  approve,  and  vice  versa.  In  the  passage  quoted  above 
Plato  was  trying  to  show  how  the  young  Athenian  acquired 
not  wisdom  itself,  but  "worldly  wisdom,"  the  ability  to  get 
along  in  affairs.  This  he  learned  not  from  the  professional 
teachers,  but  from  the  Athenian  public,  with  whose  approvals 
and  disapprovals  he  came  in  daily  contact. 

Praise  and  blame  modify  habit.  In  order  to  avoid  censure 
and  gain  the  expressed  approval  of  others,  people  learn,  either, 
as  we  say,  through  bitter  experience,  or  deliberately,  to  mod- 
ify their  actions.  The  well-brought-up  child,  even  when 
its  mother  is  not  about  and  its  appetite  unsatisfied,  may  be 

1  Plato:  Republic  (Da vies  and  Vaughn  translation),  p.  208. 
*  Thoradike:  lac.  cit.,  p.  32. 


THE  SOCIAL  NATURE  OF  MAN  99 

ashamed  to  say  "  Yes  "  to  a  second  offering  of  ice  cream.  The 
ten-year-old  who  likes  to  be  coddled  by  his  mother  hi  private 
would  be  acutely  embarrassed  to  be  "babied"  in  the  presence 
of  other  people.  Among  adults,  likewise,  actions  are  checked, 
prompted,  or  modified  by  the  praise  and  blame  that  have  be- 
come habitually  associated  with  them.  Men  like  to  appear 
virtuous,  even  if  they  do  not  like  to  practice  virtue.  It  is  not 
only  the  professional  politician  who  does  generous  acts  for 
public  approval,  nor  is  even  the  most  disinterested  and  con- 
scientious work  altogether  free  from  being  affected  by  the 
expressed  attitudes  of  approval  or  disapproval  of  other  people. 
Even  transportation  companies  have  found  that  they  can 
increase  the  efficiency  of  then*  employees  by  expressing  in 
some  form  the  approval  of  their  employees'  courtesy  and 
loyalty.1  "A  man,  again,  .  .  .  may  fail  to  see  any  'reason' 
why  an  elementary-school  teacher  or  a  second-division  clerk 
cannot  do  his  work  properly  after  he  has  been  'put  hi  his 
place*  by  some  official  who  happens  to  combine  personal  cal- 
lousness with  social  superiority.  But  no  statesman  who  did 
so  could  create  an  effective  educational  or  clerical  service."  * 
To  say  that  we  are  moved  to  action  by  praise  and  blame  is 
not  to  indicate  that  actions  thus  motivated  are  done  in  a  spirit 
of  hypocrisy  or  charlatanism.  Even  the  most  sincere  acts  are 
prompted  or  sustained,  especially  where  their  performance 
involves  serious  personal  privation  or  sacrifice,  by  the  imag- 
ined or  actual  approval  of  those  whom  we  love,  admire,  or 
respect.  Whose  praise  and  blame  individuals  will  care  about 
depends  on  their  education  and  temperamental  differences. 
That  there  will  be  some  group,  however  small,  is  almost  sure 
to  be  the  case.  The  poet  who  curls  his  lip  at  popular  taste 
cherishes  the  more  keenly  the  applause  of  those  whom  he 
regards  as  competent  judges.  The  martyr  will  be  unmoved 
by  the  curses,  the  jeers,  and  the  hoots  of  the  contemporary 

1  Many  transportation  companies  maintain  a  merit  system.  Sometimes 
they  award  special  insignia,  as  the  green  flag  to  the  New  York  bus-drivers 
who  save  gasoline. 

i  Wallas:  Great  Society,  p.  197. 


100  HUMAN  TRAITS 

multitude  so  long  as  he  has  the  trust  of  his  small  band  of  com- 
rades or  faith  that  the  Lord  approves  his  ways.  A  man  who 
is  utterly  alone  in  the  approval  of  his  actions  is  regarded  as 
crazy  or  is  driven  so  by  the  perpetual  disesteem  in  which  he  is 
held.  There  have  been  cases  in  literature  and  life  of  accused 
criminals  who  could  bear  up  against  the  belief  of  the  whole 
world  in  their  guilt  so  long  as  one  friend  or  kinsman  had  faith 
in  them.  That  faith  gone,  they  completely  collapsed. 

Desire  for  praise  may  lead  to  the  profession  rather  than  the 
practice  of  virtue.  While  the  desire  for  social  approval  is 
strong  in  most  men,  so  are  other  desires.  It  happens,  more- 
over, that  the  actions  to  which  men's  instincts  prompt  them 
are  not  always  such  as  would  be  approved  by  others.1  In 
order,  therefore,  to  have  their  cake  and  eat  it,  to  do  what  they 
please  and  yet  seem  to  please  others,  men  often  conceal  the 
discrepancy  between  what  they  profess  and  what  they  prac- 
tice. One  of  the  least  agreeable  features  of  civilized  society 
is  the  extent  to  which  the  codes  which  men  and  groups  profess 
differ  from  those  by  which  they  live.  Men  who  have  osten- 
sibly Christian  codes  of  honor,  and,  indeed,  practice  them  in 
then:  private  lives,  will  have  an  actual  "ethics"  for  business 
that  they  could  not  possibly  sanction  in  their  dealings  as 
trustees  of  a  church.  There  are  practices  within  trades  and 
professions,  the  familiar  "trade"  practices,  and  "ethics"  of 
the  profession,  which,  for  social  as  well  as  for  professional 
reasons,  their  practitioners  would  not  want  known.  "Com- 
pany" manners  are  a  trivial  illustration  of  this,  but  there  are 
more  serious  instances.  One  has  but  to  recall  the  sensation 
created  a  few  years  ago  when  a  minister  of  a  fashionable  con- 
gregation called  upon  his  congregation  to  practice  Christian- 
ity, or,  on  a  superb  scale,  Tolstoy's  leaving  the  estates  and 
mode  of  life  of  a  rich  Russian  noble,  in  order  to  live  the  simple 
life  he  regarded  as  prescribed  by  the  Christian  teaching.2 

1  At  least  not  publicly  approved.  There  is,  however,  admiration,  often 
unconcealed,  for  the  man  who  does  even  an  unusual  act  conspicuously  well. 
One  need  only  mention  a  Raffles  or  a  Captain  Kidd. 

1  See  Tolstoy's  Diary  and  Confessions. 


LIBRARY 

•TATK  TBACHPP9  COLLKOI 
•ANTA    BARBARA.   CALIFORNIA 

;THE  SOCIAL  NATURE  OF  M&N uu 


Psychologically,  therefore,  the  cause  of  the  discrepancy 
between  the  codes  which  men  preach  and  profess  and  those 
which  they  practice,  is  thus  seen  to  be  a  desire  to  secure  illicit 
(that  is,  socially  unsanctioned)  satisfactions  without  incurring 
the  penalty  of  social  disapproval.  Part  of  this  discrepancy  is 
not  to  be  set  down  to  the  evils  men  actually  do  so  much  as 
the  irrationality  and  fanaticism  of  the  codes  which  they  have 
been  taught  to  profess.  This  is  the  case,  for  example,  where 
excessive  Puritanism  or  fanaticism,  not  possible  for  most  men, 
is  imposed  upon  them  by  an  arbitrary  and  fanatical  teaching. 
They  will  then  pretend  to  types  of  action  socially  regarded  as 
virtues  in  order  to  avoid  the  penalties  incurred  by  not  prac- 
ticing them.  The  desire  for  "respectability"  is  responsible 
for  no  small  amount  of  pretension,  illustrated  pathetically  in 
cases  where  individuals,  to  satisfy  the  standards  of  their  asso- 
ciates, live  beyond  their  means  physically,  socially,  or  intel- 
lectually.1 

Again,  codes  of  action  remain  formally  accepted  long  after 
they  have  ceased  to  be  taken  seriously.  In  States  that  went 
"dry"  where  there  was  no  majority  public  sentiment  in  their 
favor,  "bootlegging,"  the  illicit  making  and  selling  of  whis- 
key, was  practiced  freely,  because  not  many  people  regarded 
prohibition  as  a  serious  matter,  or  its  infringement  as  a  serious 
crime.  Legal  codes  remain  not  infrequently  a  generation 
behind  public  opinion,  and  many  ideas  are  verbally  professed 
that  nobody  takes  quite  seriously. 

The  social  effectiveness  of  praise  and  blame.  How  far  the 
social  estimates  of  approval  and  disapproval  affect  the  con- 
duct of  the  individual  depends  on  the  degree  to  which,  through 
education,  public  opinion,  and  law,  he  is  made  part  of  the 
group.  In  primitive  society,  even  the  slightest  details  of  con- 
duct were  regulated  by  the  group,  through  an  elaborate  sys- 
tem of  punishments  for  slight  infringements.  In  civilized 

1  "  Many  Bostonians,  erode  experto  (and  inhabitants  of  other  cities,  too,  I 
fear),  would  be  happier  men  and  women  to-day  if  they  could  once  for  all 
abandon  the  notion  of  keeping  up  a  Musical  Self  and  without  shame  let  peo- 
ple hear  them  call  a  symphony  a  nuisance."  James:  Psychology,  vol.  i,  p.  311. 


102  HUMAN  TRAITS 

society,  the  development  of  a  sense  of  personal  selfhood  and 
social  recognition  of  its  importance  has  to  a  degree  freed  indi- 
vidual action  from  complete  domination  by  the  group.  This 
has  in  part  been  compensated  by  the  education  of  the  con- 
temporary citizen  to  national  interests,  and  social  sympathy, 
which  render  him  susceptible  to  the  praise  and  blame  of  pub- 
lic opinion. 

The  effectiveness  of  praise  and  blame  in  determining  action 
depends  also  on  the  explicitness  with  which  they  are  ex- 
pressed. In  contemporary  life  the  control  of  public  opinion 
is  made  precarious  because  there  is  so  rarely  complete  or  pal- 
pable unanimity  on  any  subject  among  the  variety  of  groups 
that  constitute  a  modern  society.  In  a  large  city  there  are  so 
many  groups,  so  many  sets  of  opinion,  that  an  individual  may 
not  feel  any  great  pressure  of  praise  and  blame  except  from  the 
small  circle  of  people  with  whom  he  is  associated.  In  small 
communities  action  is  restrained  by  the  fear  of  ostracism  or 
contempt  of  the  whole  group  among  whom  one  is  living.  But 
in  large  cities,  where  one  may  not  be  known  by  one's  next- 
door  neighbor,  this  restraint  is  much  reduced.  The  tempta- 
tions of  a  metropolis,  so  often  referred  to  in  the  lurid  literature 
of  the  day,  consist  not  in  temptations  more  numerous  than  or 
different  from  those  in  smaller  places,  but  in  the  marked 
absence  of  social  control  as  compared  with  small  villages  where 
every  one  knows  every  one  else's  business. 

The  influence  of  the  social  estimate  on  individual  conduct 
depends  finally  on  individual  differences  in  suggestibility. 
In  normal  individuals  susceptibility  to  the  praise  and  blame 
of  others  is  very  high,  especially  among  the  close  circle  of 
friends,  professional  and  business  associates  among  whom  one 
moves.  This  susceptibility  is  heightened  when  the  praise  or 
blame  comes  from  persons  superior  in  social  status,  though 
here  the  element  of  fear  of  the  consequences  of  displeasing  is 
perhaps  more  important  than  the  responsiveness  to  the  praise 
and  blame  itself.  To  the  praise  and  blame  of  close  associates 
most  men  are  also  highly  suggestible,  not  less  so  when  there 


THE  SOCIAL  NATURE  OF  MAN  103 

is  equality  in  social  status.  "  Birds  of  a  feather  flock  together," 
but  humans  tend  to  become  similar  because  they  flock  together. 
There  are  few  men  who  can  withstand  the  pressure  of  doing 
what  their  group  approves,  and  refraining  from  doing  what  it 
disapproves. 

In  some  men  susceptibility  to  the  attitudes  of  others  is 
extremely  low,  and  of  such  are  both  criminals  and  martyrs 
made.  In  the  prisons  of  this  country  there  are  a  large  number 
of  men  absolutely  indifferent  to  the  usual  social  standards, 
completely  undeterred  by  the  codes  of  conduct  by  which 
other  people  cannot  help  but  be  governed.  Such  absolute 
callousness  to  the  feelings  which  govern  the  majority  of  man- 
kind as  we  read  of  every  now  and  then  in  the  trial  of  some 
desperate  criminal,  is  not  infrequently  associated  with  abnor- 
mally low  intelligence,  the  sodden  stolidity  of  the  traditional 
criminal  type.  Where  it  appears,  as  it  sometimes  does,  in 
criminals  of  high  intelligence,  it  is  regarded  by  psychiatrists 
as  a  specific  abnormality,  comparable  to  color-blindness  or  a 
physical  deformity. 

There  are,  on  the  other  hand,  individuals  whose  apparent 
low  suggestibility  is  of  the  highest  social  value.  There  are 
striking  instances,  throughout  the  long  struggle  toward  human 
liberty,  of  persons  who  could  withstand  the  public  opinion 
of  their  own  day  in  the  light  of  some  ideal  which  they  cher- 
ished, of  men  who  needed  no  other  approval  than  their  con- 
sciences, their  better  selves,  or  their  god.  Socrates  drinking 
the  fatal  hemlock,  Christ  upon  the  cross,  the  Christian'saints, 
Joan  of  Arc,  the  extreme  dissenters  of  every  generation,  are 
instances  of  men  and  women  seemingly  unmoved  by  the 
praise  and  blame  of  their  contemporaries.  Sustained  by  their 
deep  inner  conviction  of  the  justice  and  significance  of  their 
mission,  they  have  been  content  to  suffer  scorn,  ridicule,  and 
martyrdom  at  the  hands  of  their  own  generation  in  a  persistent 
devotion  to  what  in  their  eyes  constituted  the  highest  good  of 
mankind. 

Social  estimates  and  standards  of  conduct.     Individuals 


104  HUMAN  TRAITS 

are  early  habituated  to  the  customs  of  the  society  in  which 
they  live,  and  come  to  approve,  as  might  be  expected  from 
the  power  of  men's  habits  and  from  their  instinctive  gregari- 
ousness,  those  things  which  they  or  their  companions  have 
always  done.  That  "people  don't  do  such  things,"  or  that 
"everybody  does  them,"  is  a  frequently  assigned  reason  for 
the  approval  or  condemnation  of  an  act.  Social  approvals 
thus  become  affixed  to  acts  which  are  regularly  done  by  the 
majority,  and  divergences  are  subjected  to  varying  degrees 
of  censure.  In  civilized  societies  variations  from  customs 
that  are  not  legally  enforced  are  punished  mainly  by  social 
ostracism.  There  is  no  law  against  walking  down  a  crowded 
city  street  in  Elizabethan  costume,  yet  few  would  indulge 
their  taste  for  beautiful  but  archaic  dress  in  the  face  of  all  the 
ridicule  they  would  incur.  The  whole  system  of  etiquette, 
of  the  standard  of  living  of  respectable  society,  is  maintained 
in  large  part  because  of  the  approvals  and  outward  marks  of 
admiration  that  go  to  some  types  of  life  and  the  contempt  in 
which  others  are  held.  Much  of  the  economic  activity  of  the 
leisure  class,  as  Professor  Veblen  has  so  well  pointed  out,  is 
devoted  to  wasting  tune  and  spending  money  conspicuously 
as  outward  indications  that  the  individual  is  living  up  to 
established  and  approved  standards.1 

The  more  significant  folkways,  standards  of  importance  and 
unimportance,  of  the  admirable  and  the  despicable,  the  noble 
and  the  base,  are  determined  by  approvals  and  disapprovals 
that  have  become  socially  habitual.  When  we  speak  of  a 
country  being  imperialistic  or  materialistic,  we  mean  that 
most  individuals  in  it,  or  at  least  those  who  are  articulate  or 
influential,  perform  or  approve  of  actions  leading  to  national 
or  individual  aggrandizement.  The  amount  of  money,  time, 
and  energy  that  is  spent  on  amusement,  public  works,  educa- 
tion, the  army  and  navy  is  a  fairly  accurate  gauge  of  the  rela- 
tive group  approvals  they  have  respectively  secured.  In  the 
same  way  the  professions  and  occupations  in  which  men  en- 

1  Veblen :  Theory  of  the  Leisure  Class. 


THE  SOCIAL  NATURE  OF  MAN  105 

gage  are  determined  by  the  social  prestige  attaching  to  them 
no  less  than  by  economic  considerations.  The  pay  of  stenog- 
raphers is  no  less  than  that  of  primary-school  teachers;  it  is 
often  much  more;  yet  many  a  girl  remains  a  teacher  for  the 
gentility  which  is  traditionally  associated  with  the  profession. 
In  the  same  way  many  girls,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  they  are 
economically  and  physically  better  off  in  domestic  service 
than  in  factory  work,  still  prefer  the  latter  because  of  the 
social  inferiority  which  is  associated  with  the  servant's  posi- 
tion. 

Approvals  and  disapprovals  become  fixed  to  acts,  in  the 
first  place,  because  of  some  supposed  danger  or  utility  they 
possess.  But  whether  the  acts  are  really  socially  useful  or  not, 
approvals  and  censures  once  fixed  tend  to  remain  habitual, 
even  though  the  conditions  which  first  called  them  forth  are 
utterly  changed.  We  are  to-day  still  more  shocked  by  errors 
in  etiquette  than  in  logic;  we  are  still  horrified  by  the  infringe- 
ment of  a  law  which,  if  we  stopped  to  consider  it,  is  not  now, 
if  it  ever  was,  of  any  genuine  service  to  mankind. 

In  advanced  societies  approvals  are  not  always  reserved  for 
the  habitual.  Certainly  in  science  original  research  and  dis- 
covery are  generally  welcomed.  In  art  originality  is  cher- 
ished, at  least  by  the  discriminating.1  Variation  in  action  is 
for  reasons  discussed  in  other  connections  less  generally  wel- 
comed. But  in  advanced  societies,  criticism  and  reflection 
upon  social  institutions  and  habits  may  themselves  come  to  be 
sanctioned  and  encouraged.  Already  we  are  beginning  to 
endow  the  scientific  study  of  government  and  industrial  rela- 
tions, and  regarding  with  favor  genuine  inquiry  into  the  possi- 
bilities of  progress. 

Importance  of  relating  praise  and  blame  to  socially  impor- 

1  Even  in  art  most  people's  approvals  and  disapprovals  are  fiied  by  what 
is  called  "good  taste,"  which  consists  not  infrequently  in  approving  what 
other  people  approve.  ^Esthetic  approval  thus  becomes  approval  of  the 
customarily  recognized.  It  took  a  Ruskin  to  make  the  neglected  genius  of 
Turner  fashionable.  Keats  and  Byron  were  bitterly  attacked  by  the  ortho- 
dox critics  of  their  generation. 


106  HUMAN  TRAITS 

tant  conduct.  What  people  approve  and  disapprove,  if  their 
approval  becomes  sufficiently  emphatic,  is  fixed  by  law.  Law 
is  the  official  and  permanent  preservation  and  enforcement 
of  public  approval  and  condemnation.  When  certain  acts  are 
regarded  as  of  crucial  importance,  the  group  does  not  depend 
on  the  precarious  effectiveness  of  public  opinion,  but  deliber- 
ately attaches  punishments  to  the  performance  of  undesired 
acts,  and,  more  infrequently,  rewards  to  the  practices  of  others. 
Most  of  our  laws  are  enforcement  of  social  condemnations, 
for  the  performance  or  the  non-performance  of  specific  acts, 
rather  than  direct  encouragements  of  action.  But  which  laws 
will  be  passed  depends  in  the  first  place  on  social  approval  or 
public  opinion.  And  if,  as  happens  in  our  complicated  politi- 
cal machinery,  laws  are  passed  which  have  not  the  sanction 
of  widespread  public  approval,  they  remain  "dead  letters." 

Outside  the  field  of  legal  control,  individual  action  is  con- 
trolled primarily  by  public  opinion.  There  are  many  prac- 
tices, strictly  speaking  "within  the  law,"  that  an  increasingly 
enlightened  public  opinion  will  not  sanction;  there  are  many 
practices  encouraged  by  an  enlightened  public  which  no  law 
compels.  There  is  no  law  forcing  business  establishments  to 
close  every  Saturday  during  the  summer,  yet  many  now  do. 
There  are  many  courtesies  practiced  by  them  which  are  not 
ordained  by  law.  That  adverse  public  opinion  may  have 
economic  consequences  if  disregarded  is  evidenced  by  the 
powerful  instrument  the  Consumers'  League  found  in  adver- 
tising against  firms  that  maintained  particularly  unsanitary 
and  morally  degrading  working  conditions  for  their  employ- 
ees, or  the  dread  that  hotels  and  department  stores  have  for 
adverse  publicity.  The  phenomenal  development  of  modern 
advertising  is  an  instance  of  the  direct  economic  values  that 
have  been  found  in  winning  public  approval.  There  is  more 
than  metaphor  in  the  statement  made  during  the  war  that 
Lord  Northcliffe,  as  owner  of  a  chain  of  English  newspapers 
with  an  immense  circulation,  was  a  "cabinet  minister  without 
portfolio." 


THE  SOCIAL  NATURE  OF  MAN  107 

The  growth  of  humanitarian  sentiment  has  frequently  en- 
forced the  improvement  of  labor  and  social  conditions  before 
improvements  were  made  compulsory  by  law.  And  in  that 
field  of  personal  relations,  which  constitute  so  large  a  part  of 
our  daily  Me,  our  conduct  is  controlled  almost  entirely  by 
the  force  of  the  public  opinion  with  which  we  come  in  contact. 
There  is  much  more  courtesy  and  kindliness  and  cooperation 
manifested  in  the  ordinary  contacts  of  life  of  a  modern  city 
than  is  required,  or  ever  could  be  secured  by  statute. 

Education  as  the  agency  of  social  control.  There  is  enor- 
mous power  in  the  habits  of  approval  or  disapproval  to  which 
we  have,  in  our  early  days,  been  subjected  by  our  parents, 
teachers,  and  companions.  It  is  through  education,  in  the 
broadest  sense,  that  the  young  come  to  learn,  and  hence  to 
practice,  those  actions  which  are  socially  approved,  and  by 
the  same  token  to  avoid  those  acts  which  are  socially  con- 
demned. Through  formal  education  the  adult  members  of  a 
society  impress  upon  the  plastic  minds  of  the  immature  those 
habits  of  thought  and  action  which  are  currently  recognized 
as  desirable.  Education  thus  becomes  the  crucial  instrument 
by  which  social  standards  are  established  and  transmitted. 

Society  exists  through  a  process  of  transmission  quite  as  much  as 
biological  life.  The  transmission  occurs  by  means  of  communica- 
tion of  habits  of  doing,  thinking,  and  feeling,  from  the  older  to  the 
younger.  Without  this  communication  of  ideals,  hopes,  expecta- 
tions, standards,  opinions,  from  those  members  of  society  who  are 
passing  out  of  the  group  life  to  those  who  are  coming  into  it,  society 
could  not  survive.1 

Society  survives  through  education.  Just  as  truly  might 
it  be  said  that  the  kind  of  society,  art,  culture,  industry,  reli- 
gion, science  that  does  survive  depends  on  the  kind  of  likes 
and  dislikes  that  are  through  education  made  habitual  in  the 
young. 

Education,  however,  may  not  only  transmit  existing  stand- 
ards, but  can  be  used  to  inculcate  newer  and  better  expecta* 

1  Dewey:  Democracy  and  Education,  pp.  3-4. 


108  HUMAN  TRAITS 

tions  and  ideals.  In  the  adult,  habits  are  already  set  physio- 
logically, and  kept  rigid  by  the  demands  of  economic  life.  In 
the  young  there  is  a  "fairer  and  freer  "  field.  Through  educa- 
tion the  immature  may  be  taught  to  approve  ways  of  action 
more  desirable  than  those  which  have  become  habitual  with 
their  adult  contemporaries.  The  children  of  to-day  may 
acquire  habits  of  action,  feeling,  and  thought  that  will  be  their 
enlightened  practice  as  the  adults  of  to-morrow.  All  great 
social  reformers,  from  Plato  to  our  own  contemporaries  like 
Bertrand  Russell,  have  seen  in  education,  therefore,  the  chief 
instrument,  as  it  is  the  chief  problem,  of  social  betterment. 
We  may  train  the  maturing  generation  to  approve  modes  of 
behavior  which  the  best  minds  of  our  time  may  have  found 
reason  to  think  desirable,  but  which  could  not  be  substituted 
immediately  for  the  fixed  habits  of  the  already  adult  genera- 
tion. 

Social  activity,  and  the  social  motive.  In  our  analysis  of 
the  social  nature  of  man  we  have,  thus  far,  been  dealing  with 
his  specific  social  tendencies.  But  apart  from  these,  or  rather 
as  an  outgrowth  of  these,  men  exhibit  what  Professor  Wood- 
worth  has  well  described  as  a  gift  for  "learning"  social  be- 
havior. 

Possessing,  as  he  eminently  does,  the  capacity  for  group  activity, 
man  is  interested  in  such  activity.  He  needs  no  ulterior  motive  to 
attract  him  to  it.  It  is  play  for  him.  .  .  .  The  social  interest  is  part 
and  parcel  of  the  general  objective  interest  of  man.1 

In  other  words,  the  activity  of  man  as  an  individual  is 
not  simply  deflected  a  little  by  man's  native  gregariousness, 
sympathy,  and  susceptibility  to  praise  and  blame.  Rather, 
group  activity  becomes  to  the  gregarious  human,  born  into  an 
environment  where  he  must  act  with  and  among  other  human 
beings,  an  interesting  and  exciting  activity  in  and  for  itself. 
Men  enjoy  working  in  a  group  or  a  society  for  joint  and  com- 
mon objects  just  as  they  enjoy  food  or  musical  composition 
or  golf. 

1  Wood  worth:  Dynamic  Psychology,  pp.  202,  203. 


THE  SOCIAL  NATURE  OF  MAN  109 

The  social  motive  is  of  the  same  order  as  the  musical  or  mathe- 
matical motive.  Just  as  one  who  has  the  musical  gift  takes  to  music 
naturally  and  finds  it  interesting  for  its  own  sake,  so  the  socially 
gifted  individual  understands  other  people,  sees  the  possibilities  of 
collective  activity,  and  the  ways  of  coordinating  it,  and  enters 
into  such  doings  with  gusto.  .  .  .  The  social  gift  is  a  capacity  for 
learning  social  behavior.  Individuals  differ  in  degree  in  the  social 
gift,  as  in  other  capacities;  some  are  capable  of  becoming  creative 
artists  or  inventors  along  social  lines.1 

The  social  behavior  of  man  is  thus  seen  to  be  no  curious 
anomaly  and  contradiction  in  the  life  of  an  otherwise  thor- 
oughly egoistic  individual.  Man  is  instinctively  social;  he 
finds  social  activity  useful  in  the  satisfaction  of  his  own 
desires,  and  he  comes  from  his  native  tendencies  and  acquired 
habits  of  social  behavior  to  enjoy  and  take  part  in  social 
activities  for  their  own  sake.  The  individual  does  not  have 
to  be  coerced  into  social  activity;  he  finds  in  such  behavior 
the  same  pleasure  that  attends  the  fulfillment  of  any  of  his 
native  or  acquired  reactions.  Society  has  been  variously 
pictured  as  a  force  holding  the  individual  in  check,  as  an 
organism  of  which  he  is  a  part,  as  a  machine  of  which  he  is  a 
cog.  Society  consists  rather  as  the  collective  name  for  the 
cooperative  and  associated  activities  of  human  beings  who 
find  such  activity,  by  nature  and  by  habit,  interesting  for  its 
own  sake. 

1  Woodworth:  Dynamic  Psychology,  p.  203. 


CHAPTER  VI 
CRUCIAL  TRAITS  IN  SOCIAL  LIFE 

The  interpenetration  of  human  traits.  This  chapter  is  de- 
voted to  a  consideration  of  a  number  of  individual  human 
traits  —  curiosity,  pugnacity,  leadership,  fear,  love,  hate, 
etc.,  and  some  of  their  more  important  social  consequences. 
These  are  seldom  present  in  isolation.  A  man  is  not,  under 
normal  circumstances,  simply  and  solely  pugnacious,  curious, 
tired,  submissive,  or  acquisitive.  One's  desire  to  own  a  par- 
ticular house  at  a  particular  location  may  be  complicated  by 
the  presence  of  several  of  these  traits  at  once.  The  house 
may  be  wanted  simply  as  a  possession,  a  crude  satisfaction  of 
our  native  acquisitiveness.  It  may  be  sought  further  as  a 
mode  of  self -display,  an  indication  of  how  one  has  risen  in  the 
world.  Its  attractiveness  may  be  heightened  by  the  fact  that 
it  is  situated  next  door  to  the  house  of  a  rather  particularly 
companionable  old  friend.  It  may  be  peculiarly  indispensa- 
ble to  one's  satisfaction  because  it  is  also  being  sought  by  a 
detested  rival.  Moreover,  as  we  shall  see  in  the  discussion 
of  the  Self,  these  traits  are  interwoven  with  each  other  and 
attain  varying  degrees  of  power  as  motive  forces  in  an  individ- 
ual's character. 

But  while  these  distinctive  human  traits  are  seldom  appar- 
ent in  isolation,  it  is  worth  while  to  consider  them  separately, 
not  only  because  the  elements  of  human  behavior  will  thus 
stand  out  more  clearly,  but  because  in  certain  individuals  one 
or  another  of  these  traits  may  be  natively  of  especial  strength. 
And  further,  in  differing  social  situations,  the  possession  or 
the  cultivation  of  one  or  another  of  these  native  endowments 
may  be  of  particular  social  value  or  danger.  And  in  any  given 
situation,  one  or  another  of  them  may  be  predominant,  as 
when  a  man  is  intensely  angry,  or  curious,  or  tired.  Thus  an 


CRUCIAL  TRAITS  IN  SOCIAL  LIFE          111 

individual  may  have  a  marked  capacity  for  leadership,  or  an 
extraordinarily  tireless  curiosity,  or  an  abnormally  developed 
pugnacity  or  acquisitiveness.  The  capacity  for  leadership, 
as  will  later  be  discussed  in  some  detail,  will  be  of  particular 
social  value  in  large  enterprises;  patient  and  persistent  inquiry 
may  produce  science;  pugnacity  when  freely  expressed  may 
provoke  quarrels,  bickerings,  and  war.  In  the  following  dis- 
cussion, the  continual  interpenetration  and  qualification  of 
these  traits  by  one  another  in  a  complex  situation  must  be 
recognized.  Else  it  may  appear  in  the  discussion  of  any  single 
trait,  as  if  by  means  of  it  all  human  action  were  being  ex- 
plained. Rather  the  aim  is  to  trace  them  as  one  might  the 
elements  in  the  pattern  of  a  tapestry,  or  the  recurrent  themes 
in  the  development  of  a  symphony.  But  as  the  symphony  is 
more  than  a  single  melody,  the  tapestry  more  than  one  ele- 
ment of  line  or  color,  so  is  human  life  more  than  any  single 
trait.1 

The  fighting  instinct.  Almost  all  men  exhibit  in  varying 
degrees  the  "fighting  instinct";  that  is,  the  tendency,  when 
interfered  with  in  the  performance  of  any  action  prompted  by 
any  other  instinct,  to  threaten,  attack,  and  not  infrequently, 
if  successful  in  attack,  to  punish  and  bully  the  individual  in- 
terfering. 

The  most  mean-spirited  cur  will  angrily  resent  any  attempt  to 
take  away  its  bone,  if  it  is  hungry;  a  healthy  infant  very  early  dis- 
plays anger  if  its  meal  is  interrupted,  and  all  through  life  most  men 
find  it  difficult  to  suppress  irritation  on  similar  occasions.  In  the 
animal  world  the  most  furious  excitement  of  this  instinct  is  provoked 
in  the  male  of  many  species  by  any  interference  with  the  satisfaction 
of  the  sexual  impulse.* 

1  Philosophers  and  others  have  time  and  again  made  the  mistake  of  sim- 
plifying human  life  to  a  single  motive  or  driving  power.  Hobbes  rested  his 
case  on  fear;  Bain  and  Sutherland  on  sympathy;  Tarde  on  imitation;  Adam 
Smith  and  Bentham  on  enlightened  self-interest.  In  our  own  day  the  Freud- 
ians interpret  everything  as  being  sexual  in  its  motive.  And  most  recently 
has  come  an  interpretation  of  life,  as  in  Bertrand  Russell  and  Helen  Marot, 
in  terms  of  the  "creative  impulse.1' 

1  McDougall:  loc.  tit.,  p.  60. 


112  HUMAN  TRAITS 

This  original  tendency  to  fight  is  very  persistent  in  human 
beings,  but  is  susceptible  of  direction,  and  is  not,  in  civilized 
life,  frequently  revealed  in  its  crude  and  direct  form,  save 
among  children  and  among  adults  under  intense  provocation 
and  excitement.  Occasionally,  however,  pugnacity  is  dis- 
played in  its  simple  animal  form.  "Man  shares  with  many 
of  the  animals  the  tendency  to  frighten  his  opponent  by  loud 
roars  or  bellowings.  .  .  .  Many  a  little  boy  has,  without  ex- 
ample or  suggestion,  suddenly  taken  to  running  with  open 
mouth  to  bite  the  person  who  has  angered  him,  much  to  the 
distress  of  his  parents."  l  As  the  individual  grows  older,  he 
learns  to  control  the  outward  and  immediate  expression  of 
this  powerful  and  persistent  human  trait.  He  learns  in  his 
dealings  with  other  people  not  to  give  way,  when  frustrated 
in  some  action  or  ambition,  to  mere  animal  rage.  The  cus- 
toms and  manners  to  which  a  child  is  early  subjected  in 
civilized  intercourse  are  effective  hindrances  to  uncontrolled 
display  of  anger  and  pugnacity;  superior  intelligence  and  edu- 
cation find  more  refined  ways  than  kicking,  pummeling,  and 
scratching  of  overcoming  the  interferences  of  others.  But 
even  in  gentle  and  cultured  persons,  an  insult,  a  disappoint- 
ment, a  blow  will  provoke  the  tell-tale  signs  of  pugnacity  and 
anger,  the  flushing  of  the  cheeks,  the  flash  of  the  eye,  the  in- 
cipient clenching  of  the  fists,  the  compressing  of  the  teeth  and 
lips,  and  the  trembling  of  the  voice.  We  substitute  sarcasm 
for  punching,  and  find  subtly  civilized,  and,  in  the  long  run, 
more  terrible,  ways  than  bruises  of  punishing  those  who  op- 
pose us  in  our  play,  our  passions,  our  professions.  But  our 
ancestors  were  beasts  of  prey,  and  there  is  still  "fighting  in 
our  blood." 

The  fighting  instinct  is  aroused  by  both  personal  and  im- 
personal situations,  and  is  occasioned  even  by  very  slight  in- 
terferences, and  even  when  the  author  of  the  interference  is 
neither  human  nor  animate.  Quite  intelligent  men  have  been 
known  to  kick  angrily  at  a  door  as  if  from  pure  malice  it  re- 

1  McDougall:  loc.  cit.,  p.  61. 


CRUCIAL  TRAITS  IN  SOCIAL  LIFE          113 

fused  to  open.  Irate  commuters  have  glared  vindictively  at 
trains  they  have  just  missed.  The  glint  of  anger  is  roused  in 
our  eye  by  an  insolent  stare,  an  ironic  comment,  or  an  imperti- 
nent retort.  The  "boiling  point"  varies  in  different  individ- 
uals and  races,  and  pugnacity  is  generally  more  readily  roused 
in  men  than  in  women.  There  are  some  persons,  like  the  pro- 
verbial Irishman,  who,  seeing  the  slightest  opportunity  for  a 
fight,  "want  to  know  whether  it  is  private,  or  whether  any- 
body can  get  in."  In  most  men  pugnacity  is  more  intense 
when  it  is  provoked  by  persons;  except  for  a  moment,  one  does 
not  try  to  fight  a  chair  struck  in  the  dark. 

Under  the  conditions  of  civilized  life  the  primitive  expres- 
sion of  pugnacity  in  physical  combat  has  been  outlawed  and 
made  unnecessary  by  law  and  custom.  Individuals  are  pre- 
vented by  the  fear  of  punishment,  besides  their  early  training 
and  habits,  from  settling  disputes  by  physical  force.  But  as 
the  instinct  itself  remains  strong,  it  must  find  some  other  out- 
let. This  it  secures  in  more  refined  forms  of  rivalry,  in  busi- 
ness and  sport,  or,  all  through  human  history,  in  fighting  be- 
tween groups,  from  the  squabbling  and  perpetual  raids  and 
killings,  and  the  extermination  of  whole  villages  and  tribes 
in  Central  Borneo,  to  the  wars  between  nations  throughout 
European  history. 

Pugnacity  a  menace  when  uncontrolled.  The  strength  and 
persistency  of  this  human  tendency,  when  uncontrolled  or 
when  fostered  between  groups,  make  it  a  very  serious  men- 
ace. Like  all  the  other  instincts,  and  more  than  most,  it  is 
frustrated  and  continually  checked  in  the  normal  peace-time 
pursuits  of  contemporary  civilization.  Participation,  imagi- 
native at  least,  in  a  great  collective  combat  undoubtedly  holds 
some  fascination  for  the  citizens  of  modern  industrial  society, 
despite  the  large-scale  horror  which  war  is  in  itself,  and  the 
desolation  it  leaves  in  its  wake.  During  peace  the  fighting 
instinct  for  most  men  receives  satisfaction  on  a  small  scale, 
sometimes  in  nothing  more  important  than  small  bickerings 
and  peevishness,  or  in  seeing  at  first  hand  or  on  the  ticker  a 


114  HUMAN  TRAITS 

championship  prize-fight.  The  pessimism  which  many  writ- 
ers have  expressed  at  the  possibility  of  perpetual  peace  rests 
in  part  on  their  perception  of  the  easy  excitability  and  deep 
persistence  of  this  impulse,  especially  among  the  vigorous  and 
young. 

Not  only  may  the  fighting  instinct  be  aroused  by  the  possi- 
bility of  international  wars,  but  it  may  be  used  by  fomenters 
and  agitators  to  add  a  sense  of  intense  pugnacity  and  violent 
anger  to  the  genuine  friction  that  does  exist  between  conflict- 
ing interests  in  the  same  society.  The  theory  of  a  "class 
war"  possibly  finds  its  appeal  for  many  minds  as  much  in  its 
picturesque  stimulation  of  their  instincts  of  pugnacity  as  in 
the  logic  of  its  economics. 

Pugnacity  as  a  beneficent  social  force.  While  the  power  of 
pugnacity  and  its  easy  stimulation  makes  this  instinct  a  pe- 
culiarly inflammable  and  dangerous  motive  force  in  civilized 
society,  it  is,  on  the  other  hand,  an  indispensable  source  of 
social  progress.  Many  psychologists  and  sociologists,  such  as 
McDougall,  Bagehot,  and  Lang,  attribute  the  superiority  in 
culture  and  social  organization  of  the  European  races  over, 
say,  the  Chinese  and  East  Indians,  to  the  fighting  instinct. 
In  the  long  series  of  wars  that  for  centuries  constituted  much 
of  the  history  of  Europe,  those  nations  which  survived,  as  in 
earlier  times  those  tribes  which  survived  combat,  were  those 
which  displayed  marked  qualities  of  superiority  in  allegiance, 
fidelity,  and  social  cooperation.  The  intensity  and  effective- 
ness of  social  cooperation  in  our  own  country  was  never  so 
well  illustrated  as  during  the  Great  War.  In  combat  be- 
tween groups  those  groups  survive  which  do  stand  out  in 
these  respects. 

William  James  in  a  famous  essay l  recognizes  clearly  the 
enormous  value  of  the  fighting  instinct  in  stimulating  action 
to  an  intense  effectiveness  exhibited  under  no  other  circum- 
stances, and  proposes  a  "moral  equivalent  for  war"  —  an 
army  devoted  to  constructive  enterprises,  reclaiming  the 

1  "  A  Moral  Equivalent  of  War,"  in  Memories  and  Studies. 


CRUCIAL  TRAITS  IN  SOCIAL  LIFE          115 

waste  places  of  the  land,  warring  against  poverty  and  disease 
and  the  like.  Certainly  every  great  reform  movement  has 
been  intensely  stimulated  and  has  gathered  about  it  the  ener- 
gies of  men  when  it  has  become  a  "crusade  for  righteous- 
ness." Part  of  Theodore  Roosevelt's  power  was  in  his  pic- 
turesque phrasing  of  political  issues  as  if  they  were  great  moral 
struggles.  No  one  could  forget,  or  fail  to  have  his  heart  beat 
a  trifle  faster  at  Roosevelt's  trumpet  call  in  the  1912  cam- 
paign: "We  stand  at  Armageddon  and  we  battle  for  the 
Lord."  His  "Big  Stick"  became  a  potent  political  symbol. 
Astute  political  leaders  have  not  failed  to  capitalize  the  fight- 
ing instinct,  and  any  social  project  will  enlist  the  wider  en- 
thusiasm and  the  more  energetic  support  if  it  is  hailed  as  a 
battle  or  fight  against  somebody  or  something. 

In  personal  life  also  the  instinct  of  pugnacity  and  the  feel- 
ing of  anger  that  goes  with  it  seem  to  set  loose  immense  floods 
of  reserve  energy.  McDougall  exaggerates  but  a  trifle  when 
he  says  it  supplies  the  zest  and  determines  the  forms  of  all  our 
games  and  recreations,  and  nine  tenths  of  the  world's  work  is 
done  by  it.  "  Our  educational  system  is  founded  upon  it ;  it  is 
the  social  force  underlying  an  immense  amount  of  strenuous 
exertion;  to  it  we  owe  in  a  great  measure  even  our  science,  our 
literature,  and  our  art;  for  it  is  a  strong,  perhaps  an  essential, 
element  of  ambition,  that  last  infirmity  of  noble  minds."  * 
In  the  overcoming  of  obstacles,  whether  in  the  work  itself,  or 
in  the  difficulties  that  a  surgeon  or  a  scholar  meets  with,  or 
in  frustrations  deliberately  put  hi  our  way  by  other  people, 
pugnacity  is  an  invaluable  stimulant  and  sustainer  of  action. 
Every  great  personality  of  strong  convictions  and  dominant 
energy  has  possessed  it  to  some  extent;  in  characters  of  great 
moral  energy  it  sometimes  takes  the  form  of  a  volcanic  and 
virtuous  wrath,  as  in  the  case  of  the  Prophets  of  the  Old 
Testament,  or  of  later  religious  and  social  reformers  who 
brought  an  earnest  and  bitter  anger  against  the  wrongs  they 
saw  and  literally  fought  to  overcome. 

1  McDougall:  loc.  tit.,  p.  294. 


116  HUMAN  TRAITS 

The  "  submissive  instinct."  Of  great  importance  in  the 
social  relations  of  men  is  their  original  tendency  to  find  satis- 
faction in  following,  partly  submitting  to,  or  completely  sur- 
rendering to  a  person  or  cause  more  dominating  than  the  in- 
dividual. Thorndike  describes  this  instinct  in  its  simplest 
form: 

There  is  an  original  tendency  to  respond  to  the  situation,  "the 
presence  of  a  human  being  larger  than  one's  self,  of  angry  or  master- 
ing aspect,"  and  to  blows  and  restraint  by  submissive  behavior. 
When  weak  from  wounds,  sickness,  or  fatigue,  the  tendency  is 
stronger.  The  man  who  is  bigger,  who  can  outyell  and  outstare  us, 
who  can  hit  us  without  our  hitting  him,  and  who  can  keep  us  from 
moving,  does  originally  extort  a  crestfallen,  abashed  physique  and 
mind.  Women  in  general  are  thus  by  original  nature  submissive  to 
men  in  general.  Every  human  being  thus  tends  by  original  nature 
to  arrive  at  a  status  of  mastery  or  submission  toward  every  other 
human  being,  and  even  under  the  more  intelligent  customs  of  civi- 
lized life  somewhat  of  the  tendency  persists  in  many  men.1 

The  impulse  to  follow  and  submit  to  something  not  our- 
selves and  more  dominating  than  ourselves  is  very  strong  in 
most  men,  and  is  called  out  by  stimuli  much  less  violent  than 
those  physical  manifestations  of  power  mentioned  in  the 
above  quotation.  Men  instinctively  long  to  be  led,  especially 
if,  as  happens  in  the  case  of  most  individuals,  there  is  in  them 
a  marked  absence  of  definite  interest,  conviction,  or  skill. 
This  instinct  is  aroused  by  any  sign  of  exceptional  power,  or, 
more  generally  still,  by  any  exceptional  conspicuousness, 
whether  socially  useful  or  not.  Men  follow  leaders  partly  be- 
cause men  live  in  groups  with  common  interests  and  in  any 
large-scale  organization  leadership  is  necessary.  But  the 
power  of  demagogues,  the  faithfulness  with  which  men'will  fol- 
low a  bad  leader  as  well  as  a  good,  are  evidence  that  men  find 
an  instinctive  satisfaction  in  submission.  Self-dependence 
stands  out  as  a  virtue  or  an  accomplishment  precisely  because 
most  men  feel  so  utterly  at  sea  without  any  loyalty,  alle- 
giance, or  devotion.  Any  one  who  has  spent  a  summer  at  a 

1  Thorndike :  Educational  Psychology,  briefer  course,  p.  34. 


CRUCIAL  TRAITS  IN  SOCIAL  LIFE          117 

boy's  camp  will  recall  the  helplessness  of  youngsters  to  mark 
out  a  program  for  themselves  and  to  keep  themselves  happy 
on  the  one  afternoon  when  there  was  no  official  program  of 
play.  Half  the  mischief  performed  on  such  occasions  is  initi- 
ated by  some  boy  with  just  a  little  more  independence  and 
persuasiveness  than  the  others.  And  it  is  not  only  among 
children  that  there  is  evinced  an  almost  pathetic  bewilder- 
ment and  unrest  in  the  absence  of  a  leader.  There  is  an 
equally  pathetic  and  sometimes  dangerous  attachment  among 
adults  to  the  first  sign  of  leadership  that  makes  its  appearance. 
The  demoralizing  authority  of  the  ward  heeler  is  sometimes 
dependent  on  no  more  trustworthy  an  index  of  real  power 
than  a  booming  voice,  a  rough  camaraderie,  and  a  physically 
"big"  personality.  And  there  are,  on  the  other  hand,  in- 
stances where  lack  of  leadership  seemed  to  be  the  chief  reason 
why  certain  classes  of  labor  were  unable  to  make  their  de- 
mands effective  at  a  much  earlier  date  than  they  did.  In  the 
first  really  big  strike  in  the  telephone  industry  in  Boston  dur- 
ing the  autumn  of  1918  success  seems  to  have  been  chiefly  due 
to  the  remarkable  leadership  of  one  of  the  young  women 
operators,  a  type  of  leadership  which  seems  to  have  appeared 
nowhere  else  in  the  telephone  industry.1 1 

The  instinct  of  submissiveness,  as  has  been  pointed  out  in 
connection  with  the  discussion  of  all  the  other  of  man's  origi- 
nal tendencies,  is  not  only  strong,  but  may  find  its  outlets  in 
attachment,  both  to  desirable  and  to  undesirable  persons  or 
objects.  Once  aroused,  attachment  and  submission  may  be- 
come as  stanch  as  they  are  blind.  The  signs  which  arouse  our 
loyalty  may  be  and  most  frequently  are  glaring  rather  than 
important.  As  Trotter  phrases  it: 

The  rational  basis  of  the  relation  [following  a  leaderj  is,  however, 
seen  to  be  at  any  rate  open  to  discussion  when  we  consider  the  quali- 
ties in  a  leader  upon  which  his  authority  so  often  rests,  for  there  can 
be  little  doubt  that  their  appeal  is  more  generally  to  instinct  than 
to  reason.  In  ordinary  politics  it  must  be  admitted  that  the  gift  of 

1  Bee  the  article  by  Wm.  Hard  in  the  New  Republic,  May  3,  1919. 


118  HUMAN  TRAITS 

public  speaking  is  of  more  decisive  value  than  anything  else.  If  a 
man  is  fluent,  dextrous,  and  ready  on  the  platform,  he  possesses  the 
one  indispensable  requisite  for  statesmanship;  if  in  addition  he  has 
the  gift  of  moving  deeply  the  emotions  of  his  hearers,  his  capacity 
for  guiding  the  infinite  complexities  of  national  life  becomes  undeni- 
able. Experience  has  shown  that  no  exceptional  degree  of  any  other 
capacity  is  necessary  to  make  a  successful  leader.  There  need  be  no 
specially  arduous  training,  no  great  weight  of  knowledge,  either  of 
affairs  or  the  human  heart,  no  receptiveness  to  new  ideas,  no  outlook 
into  reality.1 

Though  these  be  picturesquely  exaggerated  statements,  they 
do  indicate  the  fact  that  the  outward  signs  of  leadership,  of  a 
conspicuously  emotional  sort,  may  be  more  significant  in  de- 
termining the  attachments  and  loyalties  of  human  beings, 
than  are  genuine  marks  of  capacity  in  the  direction  of  political 
and  social  affairs. 

This  pronounced  tendency  on  the  part  of  human  beings  to 
follow  a  lead,  and  ''anybody's  lead,  as  it  were,  has  the  most 
serious  dangers.  It  means  that  a  man  with  qualities  that 
sway  men's  emotions  and  stir  their  imaginations  can  attach 
to  himself  the  profoundest  loyalties  for  personal  or  class  ends. 
The  gifts  of  personal  magnetism,  of  a  kindly  voice,  an  air  of 
confidence  and  calmness,  exuberant  vitality,  and  a  sensitivity 
to  other  people's  feelings,  along  with  some  of  the  genuine 
qualities  of  effective  and  expert  control  of  men  and  affairs, 
may  be  used  by  a  demagogue  as  well  as  by  a  really  devoted 
servant  of  the  popular  good,  by  an  Alcibiades  as  well  as  by  a 
Garibaldi,  by  a  conquering  Napoleon  as  well  as  by  a  Lincoln. 

Our  instincts  of  following  and  submission,  apart  from  edu- 
cation, are  as  easily  aroused  by  specious  signs  of  social  power 
and  conspicuousness  as  by  signs  of  mental  effectiveness  and 
genuine  altruistic  interest.  The  exploitation  of  these  tenden- 
cies by  selfish  leaders  is  therefore  particularly  easy.  The 
large  circulation  of  the  "yellow  press,"  the  power  in  politics 
of  the  unscrupulous,  the  selfish,  and  the  second-rate,  are 
symptoms  of  how  men's  natural  tendency  to  follow  has  been 

»  Trotter,  p.  116. 


CRUCIAL  TRAITS  IN  SOCIAL  LIFE          119 

played  upon  in  support  of  plans  and  ambitions  which  would 
not  be  sanctioned  by  their  reason.  The  genius  for  leadership 
has  been  exhibited  in  criminal  gangs,  in  conquests  and  in 
fanaticism,  as  well  as  in  the  promotion  of  good  government, 
of  better  labor  conditions  and  better  education. 

But  progress  in  these  last-named  is  dependent  on  the  utili- 
zation of  men's  submissiveness  by  leaders  interested  in  the 
promotion  of  desirable  social  enterprises.  While  men  may  be 
so  easily  led,  they  are  responsive  to  leadership  in  good  direc- 
tions as  well  as  bad.  No  great  social  movements,  the  freeing 
of  slaves,  the  gaining  of  universal  suffrage,  the  bettering  of 
factory  conditions,  freedom  of  thought  and  action,  could  have 
gained  headway  if  men  had  been  born  unwilling  to  follow. 
There  are  (see  chapter  ix)  ineradicable  differences  in  capacity 
between  men,  and  if  the  uninformed  and  the  socially  helpless 
could  not  be  aroused  to  follow  those  great  both  in  mind  and 
magnanimity,  it  is  difficult  to  see  how  the  lot  of  mankind  ever 
could  have,  or  ever  can  improve.  A  good  leader  may  make 
men  support,  out  of  instinctive  loyalty,  purposes  and  plans 
which,  if  they  completely  understood  them,  they  would  sup- 
port out  of  reason.  Up  to  the  present  most  people  have  been, 
and  will  probably  remain  for  a  long  time  to  come,  too  ill- 
educated  or  too  poorly  endowed  by  nature  to  understand  the 
bearings  of  the  great  social  movements  in  which  they  are  in- 
volved. In  consequence,  it  is  a  matter  of  congratulation  that 
their  instinct  of  submission  can  be  utilized  in  the  interests  of 
their  welfare  which  they  frequently  not  only  do  not  know  bow 
to  obtain,  but  do  not  understand.  The  Roman  populace,  en- 
chanted by  Augustus,  follow  him  to  greatness,  without  com- 
prehending the  imperial  destiny  which  they  are  helping  to 
build.  The  barbarian  hordes  affectionately  following  the 
lead  of  Charlemagne  incidentally  help  to  build  the  whole  edi- 
fice of  European  civilization. 

Men  display  qualities  of  leadership.  The  obverse  of  man's 
tendency  to  follow  a  lead  is,  of  course,  his  tendency  to  take  it. 
Individuals  tend  to  display  persistently  and  conspicuously 


120  HUMAN  TRAITS 

just  those  qualities  which  will  win  them  the  allegiance  of 
others. 

The  instinct  of  self-display  is  manifested  by  many  of  the  higher 
social  or  gregarious  animals.  .  .  .  Perhaps  among  mammals  the  horse 
displays  it  most  clearly.  The  muscles  of  all  parts  are  strongly  in- 
nervated, the  creature  holds  himself  erect,  his  neck  is  arched,  his 
tail  lifted,  his  motions  become  superfluously  vigorous  and  extensive, 
he  lif  ts  his  hoofs  high  in  air  as  he  parades  before  the  eyes  of  his  fellows. 
. . .  Many  children  clearly  exhibit  this  instinct  of  self-display;  before 
they  can  walk  or  talk  the  impulse  finds  its  satisfaction  in  the  admir- 
ing gaze  or  plaudits  of  the  family  circle  as  each  new  acquirement  is 
practiced;  a  little  later  it  is  still  more  clearly  expressed  by  the  fre- 
quently repeated  command,  "See  me  do  this,"  or  "See  how  well  I 
can  do  so  and  so";  and  for  many  a  child  more  than  half  the  delight 
of  riding  on  a  pony,  of  wearing  a  new  coat,  consists  in  the  satisfaction 
of  this  instinct,  and  vanishes  if  there  be  no  spectators.1 

Individuals  thus  instinctively  love  to  stand  out  from  their 
fellows,  to  outdistance  and  outclass  them.  And  the  qualities 
01  leadership  are  not  infrequently  stimulated  by  this  competi- 
tion with  others,  for  place,  power,  distinction.  To  win  the 
allegiance  and  loyal  affection  of  men  means  that  one's  own 
personality  is  enhanced;  one  stands  out  as  a  man  of  affairs,  a 
social  or  political  leader,  a  guide  to  others  in  action  or  thought. 
As  has  already  been  pointed  out,  the  qualities  that  will  win 
the  submission  and  loyalty  of  others  vary  widely.  In  the  case 
of  one  man  it  may  be  a  charming  smile  and  a  gift  of  saying 
striking  and  stirring  rather  than  significant  things.  In  the 
case  of  another  it  may  be  his  air  of  immense  confidence, 
restraint,  and  reserve.  It  may  be  brute  force  or  a  terrible 
earnestness;  it  may  even  be,  as  in  the  case  of  certain  religious 
reformers,  extraordinary  gentleness.  Garibaldi  "inspired 
among  men  of  the  most  various  temperaments  love  that 
nothing  could  shake,  and  devotion  that  fell  little  short  of 
idolatry."  "He  enjoyed  the  worship  and  cast  the  spell  of 
a  legendary  hero."  Alcibiades  charmed,  despite  the  patent 
evil  he  wrought,  by  his  magical  personal  beauty  and  grace. 

1  McDougall:  loc.  cit.,  pp.  62-64. 


CRUCIAL  TRAITS  IN  SOCIAL  LIFE          121 

Vandamme  said  of  Napoleon:  "That  devil  of  a  man  exercises 
on  me  a  fascination  that  I  cannot  explain  to  myself,  and  in 
such  a  degree  that,  though  I  fear  neither  God  nor  devil,  when 
I  am  in  his  presence  I  am  ready  to  tremble  like  a  child,  and  he 
could  make  me  go  through  the  eye  of  a  needle  to  throw  myself 
into  the  fire."  Augereau  is  stupefied  at  their  first  meeting, 
and  confesses  afterwards  that  "this  little  devil  of  a  general" 
has  inspired  him  with  awe.1 

Men's  qualities  of  leadership  depend,  however,  not  only  on 
their  personal  charm,  but  on  certain  seeming  or  genuine 
symptoms  of  effectiveness.  Evidences  of  strong  determina- 
tion, of  a  sweeping  imagination,  of  calm,  of  confidence,  of 
enthusiasm,  of  qualities  possessed  by  the  vast  majority  only  in 
minor  degrees,  win  men's  admiration  and  devotion  because 
they  are  associated  with  the  ability  to  accomplish  great  ends, 
to  do  the  unusual,  to  succeed  where  most  people  fail.  Most 
men  are  so  conscious  of  then*  limitations  and  the  difficulties  of 
any  enterprise  which  they  undertake  that  at  any  sign  of  ex- 
ceptional talent,  whether  real  or  apparent,  they  will  commit 
their  respect,  their  energies,  and  sometimes,  as  hi  the  case  of  a 
religious  crusade,  their  lives. 

For  good  or  evil,  the  possession,  the  cultivation,  and  the 
exhibition  of  the  qualities  of  leadership  give  men  enormous 
power.  There  was  in  the  nineteenth  century  a  historical 
fashion,  brilliantly  exemplified  by  Carlyle,  to  assume  that 
history  was  made  by  great  men.  Latterly,  there  has  been 
wide  dissent  from  this  simplification  of  the  processes  of  his- 
tory, but  it  is  clear  that  innovations  must  be  started  by  indi- 
viduals, and  that  a  powerful  leader  is  a  matchless  instrument 
for  initiating,  and  getting  wide  and  enthusiastic  support  for 
changes,  whether  good  or  bad.  To  quote  Carlyle's  eloquent 
exaggeration: 

For,  as  I  take  it,  Universal  History,  the  history  of  what  man  has 
accomplished  in  this  world,  is  at  the  bottom  the  History  of  the  Great 
Men  who  have  worked  here.    They  were  the  leaders  of  men, . . .  the 
1  See  chapter  xxi  on  "Personality"  in  Roaa'a  Social  Control. 


122  HUMAN  TRAITS 

creators  of  whatsoever  the  general  mass  of  men  contrived  to  do  or  to 
attain;  all  things  that  we  see  standing  accomplished  in  the  world  are 
properly  the  outer  material  result,  the  practical  realization  and  em- 
bodiment, of  thoughts  that  dwelt  in  the  Great  Men  sent  into  the 
world:  the  soul  of  the  whole  world's  history,  it  may  justly  be  con- 
sidered, was  the  history  of  these.  .  . .  Could  we  see  them  well,  we 
should  get  some  glimpses  into  the  very  marrow  of  the  world's 
history.1 

Later  Nietzsche  made  much  of  this  same  idea,  of  the  Super- 
man striding  through  the  world  and  changing  its  destiny, 
although  in  Nietzsche  the  Superman  was  an  end  in  himself 
rather  than  the  servant  of  the  world  in  which  he  lived. 

To  most  historical  writers  to-day  the  forces  at  work  in  his- 
tory are  much  too  complex  to  be  dismissed  with  any  such 
simple  melodrama.  But  there  remain  striking  testimonies 
of  the  influence  of  leaders.  The  sweep  of  Mohammedanism 
into  Europe  was  initiated  by  the  burning  and  contagious  zeal 
of  one  religious  enthusiast.  The  campaign  against  slavery 
in  this  country  assumed  large  proportions  through  the  strenu- 
ous leadership  of  the  Garrisons  and  the  Wendell  Phillipses. 
In  our  own  day  we  have  seen  the  same  phenomenon;  the 
great  political  and  social  changes  of  the  last  generation  have 
all  had  their  special  advocates  and  leaders  who,  if  they  were 
merely  expressing  the  "spirit  of  the  times,"  yet  did  give  that 
spirit  expression.  Every  reform  or  revolution  has  its  leading 
spirits.  That  leadership  is  not  the  one  essential  goes  without 
saying;  there  have  been  great  guides  of  repeatedly  lost  causes. 
But  many  great  causes  may  have  been  lost  through  the  want 
of  good  leadership. 

In  contemporary  life  leadership  is  not  always  directly  per- 
sonal, but  is  carried  on  through  the  medium  of  the  news- 
papers and  periodicals.  But  this  merely  means  that  a  leader 
may  reach  a  wider  audience;  he  reaches  thousands  through 
picture  and  print,  instead  of  hundreds  by  word  of  mouth. 

Qualities  of  leadership  may  be  utilized  in  the  support  of 
the  customary  or  the  established,  as  well  as  in  initiation  and 

1  Carlyle:  Heroes  and  Hero-Worahip,  Lecture  i. 


CRUCIAL  TRAITS  IN  SOCIAL  LIFE          123 

support  of  the  novel.  People  ape  the  great,  or  those  that  pass 
for  great,  in  manners  and  morals.  The  words  of  a  distin- 
guished public  man  have  prestige  in  the  maintenance  of  the 
established.  Men  will  follow,  and  if  the  socially  conspicuous 
lead  them  along  the  ways  of  the  established,  they  will  follow 
there  as  readily  and,  being  creatures  of  habit,  often  more 
readily  than  along  new  paths.  The  immense  following  among 
the  lower  social  classes  that  the  Conservative  Party  had  in 
England  all  through  the  nineteenth  century  in  the  face  of 
proposed  changes  that  would  have  bettered  their  own  con- 
ditions, is  an  interesting  illustration  of  this.  This  is  partly 
because  the  influence  of  leaders  is  dependent  on  their  social 
status  as  well  as  their  personal  qualities.  The  opinions  of 
inventors  and  big  business  men  are  taken  with  eagerness  and 
credulity  even  when  touching  matters  outside  their  own  field. 
A  man  is  made,  as  it  were,  ipso  facto,  a  leader,  by  being  rich, 
powerful,  of  a  socially  distinguished  family,  or  the  director  of 
a  large  industry,  although  he  may  have,  besides,  qualities  of 
leadership  that  do  not  depend  on  his  social  position. 

Man  pities  and  protects  weak  and  suffering  things.  Nearly 
all  human  beings  exhibit  a  tendency  to  protect  weak  and 
suffering  things.  This  impulse  is  closely  related  to,  and  prob- 
ably has  its  origin  in  the  parental  instinct,  more  common,  of 
course,  in  women  than  in  men.  The  feeling  of  affectionate 
pity  and  the  impulse  to  rescue  from  pain  are  most  intense 
when  the  distressed  thing  is  a  child,  and  particularly  one's 
own.  One  of  the  most  poignant  instances  extant  is  the  speech 
of  Andromache,  one  of  the  Trojan  women  in  Euripides's  play 
of  that  name,  to  her  child  who  is  about  to  be  slain  by  the 
Greeks: 

And  none  to  pity  thee! . . .  Thou  little  thing, 

That  curlest  in  my  arms,  what  sweet  scents  cling 

All  round  thy  neck!    Beloved;  can  it  be 

Ail  nothing,  that  this  bosom  cradled  thec 

And  fostered;  all  the  weary  nights  wherethrough 

I  watched  upon  thy  sickness,  till  I  grew 

Wasted  with  watching?     Kiss  me.     This  one  time; 

Not  ever  again.    Put  up  thine  arms  and  climb 


124  HUMAN  TRAITS 

About  my  neck;  now  kiss  me,  lips  to  lips  . . . 
O  ye  have  found  an  anguish  that  outstrips 
All  tortures  of  the  East,  ye  gentle  Greeks! 
Why  will  ye  slay  this  innocent  that  seeks 
No  wrong?  . .  .* 

But  the  "tender  emotion"  as  McDougall  calls  it,  is  aroused 
by  other  children  than  one's  own,  and  by  others  than  children. 
It  is  called  out  particularly  by  things  that  are  by  nature 
helpless  and  delicate,  but  may  be  aroused  by  adults  who  are 
placed  in  situations  where  they  are  suffering  and  powerless. 
Samson,  shorn  of  his  strength,  has  been  a  traditional  occasion 
for  pathos.  The  sick,  the  bereaved,  the  down-and-outers,  the 
failures,  the  forlorn  and  broken-hearted,  call  out  in  most  men 
an  impulse  to  befriend  and  protect.  Those  who  have  been 
dealt  with  unjustly  or  severely  by  their  associates  and  society 
and  who  have  no  redress,  the  poverty-stricken,  the  criminal 
who  has  been  punished  and  remains  an  exile,  the  maimed 
and  deformed,  the  widow  and  orphan,  all  these,  arouse,  apart 
from  the  restraining  force  exercised  by  other  instincts  and 
habits,  such  as  anger  and  disgust,  a  natural  tendency  to  pity 
and  aid. 

The  parental  instinct  in  its  direct  and  primitive  form  is 
responsible  for  the  closeness  of  family  relations,  a  most  impor- 
tant consideration  in  the  case  of  humans  who  have,  as  already 
discussed,  a  long  period  of  infancy  during  which  they  are 
absolutely  dependent  on  their  elders.  In  the  higher  species, 
writes  McDougall,  "The  protection  and  cherishing  of  the 
young  is  the  constant  and  all-absorbing  occupation  of  the 
mother,  to  which  she  devotes  all  her  energies,  and  in  the 
course  of  which  she  will  at  any  time  undergo  privation,  pain, 
and  death.  The  instinct  becomes  more  powerful  than  any 
other,  and  can  override  any  other,  even  fear  itself."  2  Wher- 
ever the  ppwer  of  the  parental  instinct  has  waned,  as  in  Greek 
and  Roman  society,  the  civilization  in  which  that  degenera- 
tion occurred  was  subjected  to  rapid  decay.3 

1  Euripides:  Trojan  Women  (Gilbert  Murray  translation),  p.  49. 
*  McDougall:  loc.  cit.,  p.  67.  *  Cf.  Ibid.,  p.  271. 


CRUCIAL  TRAITS  IN  SOCIAL  LIFE          125 

The  parental  instinct  in  its  more  general  form  of  pity  and 
protectiveness  toward  all  weak  and  suffering  things  is,  in  the 
minds  of  many  moralists,  the  origin  of  all  altruistic  senti- 
ments and  actions,  and  at  the  same  time  the  moral  indigna- 
tion which  insists  on  the  punishment  of  wrong-doers.  It  is 
clearly  apparent  in  such  movements  as  the  Societies  for  the 
Prevention  of  Cruelty  to  Children  or  to  Animals,  the  anti- 
vivisection  crusade,  and  the  like.  But  according  to  such  a 
distinguished  moralist  as  John  Stuart  Mill,  the  whole  system 
of  justice  and  punishment  has  its  origins  in  this  tender  feeling 
for  those  who  have  been  wronged. 

Fear.  Fear  is  one  of  the  least  specialized  of  human  traits, 
being  called  out  in  a  great  variety  of  situations,  and  resulting 
in  a  great  variety  of  responses.  The  most  obvious  symptom 
of  fear  is  flight,  but  there  may  be  a  dozen  other  responses. 
"Crouching,  clinging,  starting,  trembling,  remaining  stock 
still,  covering  the  eyes,  opening  the  mouth  and  eyes,  a  tem- 
porary cessation  followed  by  an  acceleration  of  the  heart-beat, 
difficulty  hi  breathing,  paleness,  sweating,  and  erection  of  the 
hair  are  responses  of  which  certain  ones  seem  bound,  apart 
from  training,  to  certain  situations,  such  as  sudden  loud 
noises  or  clutches,  the  sudden  appearance  of  strange  objects, 
thunder  and  lightning,  loneliness  and  the  dark."  * 

In  general,  the  marked  physical  reactions  and  deep  emo- 
tional disturbance  that  we  call  fear  are  aroused  by  anything 
loud  or  strange,  or  that  has  outward  signs  of  possible  danger 
to  ourselves,  such  as  a  large  wild  animal  approaching  us.  In 
civilized  man,  whose  life  is  comparatively  sheltered,  there  aro 
considerable  individual  differences  in  susceptibility  to  fear, 
and  in  the  intensity  with  which  it  controls  the  individual. 
But  there  are  certain  typical  situations  that  call  it  forth. 
Among  young  children,  and  not  much  less  so  among  adults, 
fear  is  aroused  by  any  sudden  loud  noise,  by  strange  men  and 
strange  animals,  black  things  and  dark  places,  "vermin,"  such 
as  spiders  and  snakes,  among  a  great  many  adults  fear  of 

>  Thorndike:  foe.  eit.,  p.  20. 


126  HUMAN  TRAITS 

high  places,  and,  among  a  few  agoraphobia  or  fear  of  open 
spaces.1  The  deep-seatedness  of  fear  has  been  explained  by 
the  fact  that  most  of  the  things  which  instinctively  arouse 
fear  were,  in  primitive  life,  the  source  of  very  real  danger  and 
that  under  those  conditions,  where  it  was  absolutely  essential 
to  beware  of  the  unfamiliar  and  the  strange,  only  those  ani- 
mals survived  who  were  equipped  with  such  a  protective 
mechanism  as  fear  provides. 

The  instinct  of  fear  has  important  social  consequences,  es- 
pecially as  its  influence  is  not  infrequently  clothed  over  with 
reasons.  In  savage  life,  as  McDougall  points  out,  "fear  of 
physical  punishment  inflicted  by  the  anger  of  his  fellows  must 
have  been  the  great  agent  of  discipline  of  primitive  man; 
through  such  fear  he  must  first  have  learned  to  control  and 
regulate  his  impulses  in  conformity  with  the  needs  of  social 
life."  2  In  contemporary  society  fear  is  not  so  explicitly 
present,  but  it  is  still  a  deep-seated  power  over  men's  lives. 
Fear  of  punishment  may  not  be  the  only  reason  why  citizens 
remain  law-abiding,  but  it  is  an  important  control  over  many 
of  the  less  intelligent  and  the  less  socially  minded.  In  an  un- 
ideal  society  there  are  still  many  who  will  do  as  much  evil  as  is 
"within  the  law,"  and  fear  of  the  consequences  of  failing  a 
course  is  among  some  contemporary  undergraduates  still  an 
indispensable  stimulus  of  study. " 

Fear  plays  a  part,  however,  not  only  in  preventing  people 
from  breaking  the  law,  but  often  from  living  their  lives  freely 
and  after  their  own  convictions.  As  has  been  strikingly 
pointed  out  by  Hilaire  Belloc  and  Hobson,  one  of  the  greatest 
evils  of  our  present  hit-or-miss  methods  of  employment  is 
the  fear  of  "losing  his  job,"  the  uncomfortable  feeling  of 
insecurity  often  felt  by  the  workingman  who,  having  so 
frequently  nothing  to  store  up  against  a  rainy  day,  lives  in 
perpetual  fear  of  sickness  or  discharge. 

In  earlier  times  fear  of  the  consequences  of  expressing  dis- 

1  For  a  discussion  of  these,  see  James:  Psychology, <yol.  n,  p.  415  ff. 
t  McDougall:  loc.  cit.,  p.  303. 


CRUCIAL  TRAITS  IN  SOCIAL  LIFE          127 

sent  from  established  opinions  and  beliefs  was  one  of  the 
chief  sources  of  social  inertia.  Where  excommunication,  tor- 
ture, and  death  followed  dissent,  it  is  not  surprising  that  men 
feared  to  be  dissenters.  In  contemporary  society  under 
normal  conditions  men  have  much  less  to  fear  in  the  way  of 
punishment,  but  may  accept  the  traditional  and  conven- 
tional because  they  fear  the  consequences  of  being  different, 
even  if  those  consequences  are  not  anything  more  serious  than 
a  personal  snub. 

While  men  fear  to  dissent  because  of  the  disapproval  to 
which  they  may  be  subjected,  dissent,  the  novel  and  strange 
in  action  and  opinion  are  themselves  feared  by  most  men 
because  of  the  unknown  and  unpredictable  consequences  to 
which  they  may  lead.  Men  were  at  first  afraid  of  the  steam- 
engine  and  the  locomotive.  Men  still  fear  novel  political  and 
social  ideas  before  they  can  possibly  understand  what  they 
have  to  be  afraid  of.  The  fact  that  thought  so  continually 
turns  up  the  novel  and  the  strange  is,  according  to  Bertrand 
Russell,  precisely  the  reason  why  most  men  are  afraid  to 
think.  And  fear  of  the  novel,  the  strange,  the  unaccustomed 
is,  as  in  the  case  of  many  other  instincts,  a  perfectly  natural 
means  of  protection  that  would  otherwise  have  to  be  sought 
by  elaborate  processes  of  reason.  In  what  we  call  prudence, 
caution,  and  care,  fear  undoubtedly  plays  some  part,  and 
Plato  long  ago  pointed  out  it  is  only  the  fool,  not  the  brave 
man,  who  is  utterly  unafraid.1 

Psychologists  may  be  said  to  differ  largely  as  to  the  utility 
of  fear.  They  are  nearly  all  agreed  that  in  the  forest  life 
which  was  man's  originally,  fear  had  its  specific  marked 
advantages.  Open  spaces,  dark  caverns,  loud  noises  were 
undoubtedly  associated  very  frequently  with  danger  to  the 
primitive  savage,  and  an  instinctive  recoil  from  these  centers 
of  disaster  was  undoubtedly  of  survival  value.  But  there  is 
an  increasing  tendency  to  discount  the  utility  of  fear  in  civi- 
lized life.  "Many  of  the  manifestations  of  fear  must  be 

1  Protagoras. 


128  HUMAN  TRAITS 

regarded  as  pathological,  rather  than  useful. ...  A  certain 
amount  of  timidity  obviously  adapts  us  to  the  world  we  live 
in,  but  the  fear  paroxysm  is  surely  altogether  harmful  to  him 
who  is  its  prey."  * 

Fear  and  worry,  which  is  a  continuous  form  of  fear,  in  gen- 
eral hinder  action  rather  than  promote  it.  In  its  extreme 
form  it  brings  about  complete  paralysis,  as  in  the  case  of 
terror-stricken  hunted  animals.  When  humans  or  animals  are 
utterly  terrified  even  death  may  result.  This  fact  that  fear 
hinders  action,  sometimes  most  seriously,  seems  to  some 
philosophic  writers,  especially  Bertrand  Russell,  a  key  fact 
for  social  life.  "No  institution,"  he  writes,  "inspired  by 
fear,  can  further  life."  2  And  in  another  connection:  "  In  the 
world  as  we  have  been  imagining  it,  economic  fear  will  be  re- 
moved out  of  life.  .  .  .  No  one  will  be  haunted  by  the  dread  of 
poverty.  .  .  .  The  unsuccessful  professional  man  will  not  live 
in  terror  lest  his  children  should  sink  in  the  scale.  ...  In  such 
a  world,  most  of  the  terrors  that  lurk  in  the  background  of 
men's  minds  will  no  longer  exist."  8  "  In  the  daily  lives  of  most 
men  and  women,  fear  plays  a  greater  part  than  hope.  It  is  not 
so  that  life  should  be  lived."  4 

Love  and  hate.  All  human  relations  are  qualified  by  the 
presence,  more  or  less  intense,  of  emotion.  Human  beings 
are  not  merely  so  many  items  that  are  coldly  counted  and 
handled,  as  one  counts  and  handles  pounds  of  sugar  and 
pieces  of  machinery.  A  man  may  thus  regard  human  beings 
when  he  deals  with  them  in  mass,  or  thinks  of  them  in  statis- 
tical tables  or  in  the  routine  of  a  government  office.  But 
human  beings  experience  some  emotional  accompaniment  in 
their  dealings  with  individuals,  especially  when  face  to  face, 
and  experience  more  especially,  in  varying  degrees,  the  emo- 
tions of  love  or  hate.  These  terms  are  here  used  in  the  general 
sense  of  the  receptive,  positive,  or  expansive  attitude  and  the 

1  James:  Psychology,  vol.  n,  p.  419. 

*  Bertrand  Russell:  Why  Men  Fight,  p.  180. 

*  Russell:  Proposed  Roads  to  Freedom,  p.  203. 

*  Ibid.,  p.  186.      (Italics  mine.) 


CRUCIAL  TRAITS  IN  SOCIAL  LIFE          120 

cold,  negative,,  repellent,  and  contractual  attitude  toward 
others.  These  may  both  be  intense  and  consciously  noted,  as 
in  the  case  of  long-cherished  and  deep  affections  or  antipa- 
thies to  different  individuals.  They  may  appear  as  a  half- 
realized  sense  of  pleasure  in  the  mere  presence  and  poise  of  a 
person,  or  a  curious  sense  of  discomfort  and  irritation  at  his 
appearance,  his  voice,  or  his  gesture.  These  attitudes,  even 
when  slight,  color  and  qualify  our  relations  with  other  indi- 
viduals. They  may,  hi  their  larger  manifestations,  play  so 
large  a  part,  that  they  must  be  considered  separately,  and  in 
detail. 

Love.  Love,  used  in  this  broad  sense,  varies  in  intensity. 
It  may  be  nothing  more  —  it  certainly  frequently  starts  as 
nothing  more  —  than  the  feeling,  so  native  as  to  be  fairly 
called  instinctive,  of  common  sympathy,  fellow  feeling,  im- 
mediate affinity  with  another.  The  psychological  origins  of 
this  disposition  have  already  been  noted  in  connection  with 
man's  tendency  to  experience  sympathetically  immediately 
the  emotions  of  others.  Every  business  man,  lawyer,  teacher, 
any  one  who  comes  much  into  contact  with  a  wide  variety 
of  people,  knows  how,  antecedent  to  any  experience  with  an 
individual's  capacities  or  talents,  or  even  before  one  had  a 
chance  to  draw  any  inf erences  from  a  person's  walk,  his  bear- 
ing, or  his  clothing,  one  may  register  an  immediate  like  or  dis- 
like. Every  one  has  had  the  experience  in  crossing  a  college 
campus  or  riding  in  a  train  or  street  car  of  noting,  in  passing 
some  one  whom  one  has  never  seen  before,  an  immediate  re- 
action of  good-will  and  affection.  This  has  been  charmingly 
expressed  by  a  well-known  English  poet: 

"The  street  sounds  to  the  soldiers'  tread, 

And  out  we  troop  to  see; 
A  single  redcoat  turns  his  head, 
He  turns  and  looks  at  me. 

"My  man,  from  sky  to  sky 's  so  far, 

We  never  crossed  before; 
Such  leagues  apart  the  world's  cods  aret 
We're  like  to  meet  no  more. 


130  HUMAN  TRAITS 

"What  thoughts  at  heart  have  you  and  I, 

We  cannot  stop  to  tell; 
But  dead  or  living,  drunk  or  dry, 
Soldier,  I  wish  you  well."  1 

All  affection  for  individuals  probably  starts  in  this  immedi- 
ate instinctive  liking.  "  The  first  note  that  gives  sociability  a 
personal  quality  and  raises  the  comrade  into  an  incipient 
friend  is  doubtless  sensuous  affinity.  Whatever  reaction  we 
may  eventually  make  on  an  impression,  after  it  has  had  time 
to  soak  in  and  to  merge  in  some  practical  or  intellectual 
habit,  its  first  assault  is  always  on  the  senses,  and  no  sense  is 
an  indifferent  organ.  Each  has,  so  to  speak,  its  congenial 
rate  of  vibration,  and  gives  its  stimuli  a  varying  welcome. 
Little  as  we  may  attend  to  these  instinctive  hospitalities  of 
sense,  they  betray  themselves  in  unjustified  likes  and  dis- 
likes felt  for  casual  persons  and  things,  in  the  je  ne  sais  quoi 
that  makes  instinctive  sympathy."  2  From  this  immediate 
instinctive  liking  it  may  rise  to  deep  personal  attachments, 
strikingly  manifested  in  friendship  and  love  between  the 
sexes,  both  immemorially  celebrated  by  poets  and  novelists. 
Love  is  aroused  chiefly  by  persons,  and  among  persons,  espe- 
cially in  the  case  of  sexual  love,  most  frequently  by  more  or 
less  physical  beauty  and  attractiveness.  But  affection  may 
be  aroused  and  is  certainly  sustained  by  other  than  merely 
physical  qualities. 

It  is  provoked  by  what  we  call  personal  or  social  charm,  a 
genuine  kindliness  of  manner,  an  open-handed  sincerity  and 
frankness,  considerateness,  gentleness,  whimsicality.  Which 
particular  social  graces  will  win  our  affections  depends  of 
course  on  our  own  interests,  equipment,  and  fund  of  instinc- 
tive and  acquired  sympathies.  Popular  psychology  has  in 
various  proverbs  hit  at  and  not  entirely  missed  some  of  the 
obvious  and  contradictory  elements:  "Opposites  attract," 
"Birds  of  a  feather  flock  together,"  and  so  on.  Intellectual 

1  A.  E.  Housman:  The  Shropshire  Lad  (John  Lane  edition),  p.  32. 
1  Santayana:  Reason  in  Society,  p.  151. 


CRUCIAL  TRAITS  IN  SOCIAL  LIFE          131 

qualities,  in  persons  of  marked  intellectual  interests,  will  also 
sustain  friendship  and  deepen  an  instinctive  liking.  Friend- 
ships thus  begin  in  accident  and  are  continued  through  com- 
munity of  interest.  It  is  to  be  questioned  whether  merely 
striking  intellectual  qualities  initiate  a  friendship.  They  may 
command  admiration  and  respect,  but  liking,  friendship,  and 
love  have  a  more  emotional  and  personal  basis. 

This  same  warm  affectionate  appreciation  that  nearly  all 
people  have  for  other  persons,  fewer  people  —  great  poets, 
philosophers,  and  enthusiastic  leaders  of  men  —  have  for 
causes,  institutions,  and  ideas.  One  feels  in  the  works  of  great 
thinkers  the  same  warmth  and  loyalty  to  ideas  and  causes 
that  ordinary  people  display  toward  their  friends.  Plato  has 
given  for  all  time  the  progress  of  love  from  attachment  to  a 
single  individual  through  to  institutions,  ideas,  and  what  he 
called  mystically  the  idea  of  beauty  itself. 

For  he  who  would  proceed  rightly  in  this  matter  should  begin  in 
youth  to  turn  to  beautiful  forms;  and  first,  if  his  instructor  guide 
him  rightly,  he  should  learn  to  love  one  such  form  only  —  out  of  that 
he  should  create  fair  thoughts,  and  soon  he  will  himself  perceive  that 
the  beauty  of  one  form  is  truly  related  to  the  beauty  of  another, 
and  then  if  beauty  in  general  is  his  pursuit,  how  foolish  would  he  be 
not  to  recognize  that  the  beauty  in  every  form  is  one  and  the  same! 
And  when  he  perceives  this  he  will  abate  his  violent  love  of  the  one, 
which  he  will  despise  and  deem  a  small  thing,  and  will  become  a  lover 
of  all  beautiful  forms;  this  will  lead  him  on  to  consider  that  the 
beauty  of  the  mind  is  more  honorable  than  the  beauty  of  the  outward 
form.  So  that  if  a  virtuous  soul  have  but  a  little  comeliness,  he  will 
be  content  to  love  and  tend  him  .  . .  until  his  beloved  is  compelled 
to  contemplate  and  see  the  beauty  of  institutions  and  laws,  and 
understand  that  all  is  of  one  kindred;  and  that  personal  beauty  is 
only  a  trifle;  and  after  laws  and  institutions,  he  will  lead  him  on  to 
the  sciences,  that  he  may  see  their  beauty  . . .  until  at  length  he 
grows  and  waxes  strong,  and  at  last  the  vision  is  revealed  to  hipi  of  a 
single  science  which  is  the  science  of  beauty  everywhere.1 

There  have  been  again  great  scientists  who  have  had  the 
same  warm  affectionate  devotion  for  their  subject-matter 

1  Plato:  Symposium  (Jowett  translation),  p.  602. 


132  HUMAN  TRAITS 

that  most  men  display  toward  persons.  There  are  scholars 
almost  literally  in  love  with  their  subjects.  There  have  been 
a  greater  number  whose  capacity  for  affection  has  extended  to 
include  the  whole  human  race,  and,  indeed,  all  animate  crea- 
tion. Such  a  type  of  character  is  beautifully  exemplified  in 
Saint  Francis  of  Assisi: 

In  Francis  all  living  creatures  may  truly  be  said  to  have  found  a 
friend  and  benefactor;  his  great  heart  embraced  all  the  men  and 
women  who  sought  his  sympathy  and  advice,  and  his  pity  for  the 
dumb  helplessness  of  suffering  animals  was  deep  and  true.  He  would 
lift  the  worm  from  his  path  lest  a  careless  foot  should  crush  it,  and 
would  encourage  his  "little  sister  grasshopper"  to  perch  upon  his 
hand,  and  chirp  her  song  to  his  gentle  ear.  He  tamed  the  fierce  wolf 
of  Gubbio,  and  fed  the  robins  with  crumbs  from  his  table.1 

And  Christ  stands,  of  course,  in  the  Christian  world,  as  the 
supreme  symbol  of  love  for  mankind. 

In  ordinary  men  it  is  this  generalized  affection  which  is  at 
the  basis  of  any  sustained  interest  in  philanthropic  or  altruistic 
enterprises.  No  less  than  a  large  and  generous  affection  for 
humanity  is  required  to  enable  men  to  endure  for  long  the 
dreariness  and  disillusion  so  often  incident  to  philanthropic 
work,  the  conflicts  and  disappointments  of  public  administra- 
tion. Certainly  this  is  true  of  the  first  rank  of  statesmen;  no 
characterization  of  Lincoln  fails  to  emphasize  his  essential 
humanity  and  tenderness. 

Disinterested  love  for  humanity  is  normally  most  intense 
in  the  adolescent.2  The  pressure  of  private  concerns,  of  one's 
narrowing  interest  in  one's  own  career,  one's  own  family,  and 
small  circle  of  friends,  the  restriction  of  one's  sympathies  by 
fixed  habits  and  circumscribed  experience,  all  tend  to  dampen 
by  middle  age  the  ardor  of  the  man  who  as  an  undergraduate 
at  eighteen  set  out  to  make  the  world  "a  better  place  to  live 
in."  But  more  effective  in  dampening  enthusiasm  is  the  dis- 
illusion and  weariness  that  set  in  after  a  period  of  exuberant 

1  Goff  and  Kerr-Lawson:  Assisi  of  Saint  Francis,  p.  121. 
1  Simeon  Strunsky  has  somewhere  remarked:  "At  eighteen  a  man  is  inter- 
ested in  causes;  at  twenty-eight  in  commutation  tickets." 


CRUCIAL  TRAITS  IN  SOCIAL  LIFE          133 

and  romantic  benevolence  to  mankind  in  general.  "We 
call  pessimists,"  writes  a  contemporary  French  philosopher, 
"those  who  are  in  reality  only  disillusioned  optimists."  l  So 
the  cynic  may  be  fairly  described  as  a  disheartened  lover  of 
men.  It  is  only  an  unusual  gift  of  affectionate  good-will 
that  enables  mature  men,  after  rough  and  disillusioning  experi- 
ences in  public  life,  to  maintain  without  sentimentality  a  gen- 
uine and  persistent  interest  in  the  welfare  of  others.  Those  in 
whom  the  fund  of  human  kindness  is  slender  will,  and  easily 
do,  become  cynical  and  hard. 

The  attitude  of  affection  for  others  is  profoundly  influential 
in  stimulating  our  interest  in  specific  individuals,  and  modify- 
ing our  attitudes  toward  them.  We  cannot  help  being  more 
interested  in  those  for  whom  we  entertain  affection  than  in 
those  to  whom  we  are  indifferent.  In  the  same  way  our  judg- 
ments of  our  own  friends,  families,  and  children  are  qualified 
by  our  affection  for  them.  Parents  and  lovers  are  notori- 
ously partial,  and  a  fair  judgment  of  the  work  of  our  friends 
demands  unusual  clarity,  determination,  and  poise. 

In  a  larger  way  the  generally  friendly  attitude  towards 
others,  genial  expansive  receptivity,  is  at  the  basis  of  what  is 
called  "charity  for  human  weakness."  The  gentle  cynic  can 
see  and  tolerate  other  men's  weaknesses: 

"He  knows  how  much  of  what  men  paint  themselves 
Would  blister  in  the  light  of  what  they  are; 
He  sees  how  much  of  what  was  great  now  shares 
An  eminence  transformed  and  ordinary; 
He  knows  too  much  of  what  the  world  has  hushed 
In  others,  to  be  loud  now  for  himself."  * 

The  devoutly  religious  have  displayed  keen  psychological 
insight  when  they  made  man's  salvation  dependent  on  God's 
charity,  and  identified,  as  did  Dante,  charity  with  love.8 

1  Georges  Sorel:  Reflection  on  Violence  (English  translation),  p.  9. 

*  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson:  "Ben  Jonson  Entertains  a  Man  from  Strat- 
ford," in  his  Man  Against  the  Sky., 

*  "  Love  and  the  gentle  heart  are  one  and  the  same  thing.'*    The  New  Life, 
XX  (son  xi)  Amorc  e  cor  gentile  son  una  cosa.    To  Dante  the  spontaneous  im- 
pulse to  love  is  the  basis  of  all  altruism.    To  feel  and  to  follow  this  impulse  ia 
to  be  truly  noble,  to  have  a  '.'cor  gentile,"  a  gentle  heart. 


134  HUMAN  TRAITS 

Hate.  Hate  may  be  described  as  an  extreme  form  of  dis- 
affection usually  provoked  by  some  marked  interference  with 
our  activities,  desires,  or  ideals.  But  in  less  intense  degree 
the  negative  feeling  towards  others  may  be  provoked  imme- 
diately and  unmistakably  by  most  casual  evidence  of  voice, 
manner,  or  bearing.  Such  immediate  revulsions  of  feeling 
contrast  with  the  instances  of  "instinctive  sympathy"  pre- 
viously cited,  and  are  as  direct  and  uncontrollable.  Even 
kindly  disposed  persons  cannot  help  experiencing  in  the  pres- 
ence of  some  persons  they  have  never  seen  before,  a  half- 
conscious  thrill  of  repulsion  or  a  dislike  colored  with  dread. 
A  shifting  gaze,  a  noticeably  pretentious  manner,  a  marked 
obsequiousness,  a  grating  voice,  a  chilmess  of  demeanor,  a 
physical  deformity,  these,  however  little  they  may  have  to  do 
with  a  person's  genuine  qualities,  do  affect  our  attitudes  to- 
ward them.  As  the  familiar  verse  has  it: 

"I  do  not  like  you,  Dr.  Fell, 
The  reason  why  I  cannot  tell, 
But  this  I  know,  and  know  full  well, 
I  do  not  like  you,  Dr.  Fell." 

We  may  later  revise  our  estimates,  but  the  initial  reaction 
is  made,  and  often  remains  as  a  subconscious  qualification  of 
our  general  attitude  toward  another.  People  of  worldly  ex- 
perience learn  to  trust  their  first  reactions,  to  "  size  a  man  up  " 
almost  intuitively,  and  to  be  surprised  if  their  first  impres- 
sions go  astray. 

From  this  merely  instinctive  revulsion  the  negative  atti- 
tude may  rise  to  that  terrible  form  of  destructive  antipathy 
which  is  "hate,"  as  popularly  understood.  In  between  lie 
degrees  of  dislike  depending  partly  on  the  strength  of  the  ini- 
tial antipathy,  but  equally  so  on  the  degree  to  which  others, 
whether  persons,  institutions,  or  ideas,  interfere  vrith  our  ac- 
tivities, desires,  or  ideals.  The  man  who  seriously  obstructs 
our  love,  our  pleasure,  or  our  ambition,  or  who  tries  to  do  so, 
provokes  hate,  and  its  concomitants  of  jealousy,  rage,  and 
pugnacity.  It  is  not  only  that  we  dislike  the  mere  presence 


CRUCIAL  TRAITS  IN  SOCIAL  LIFE          135 

of  the  person  (in  the  opposite  case  the  mere  presence  of  the 
beloved  object  is  a  joy),  but  we  dislike  it  for  what  it  portends 
in  danger  and  threat  to  ourselves.  The  more  serious  the  evil 
or  disaster  for  which  a  person  comes  to  stand,  the  more  vio- 
lent the  hatred  for  him,  despite  his  personal  fascinations. 
The  villain  is  not  infrequently  a  "damned  smiling  villain." 

The  provocation  of  hate  is  complicated  by  the  fact  that  it 
is  closely  associated  with  fear.  We  dislike  those  who  threaten 
our  happiness  partly  because  we  fear  them.  And  we  fear,  as 
was  pointed  out  in  more  detail  in  the  discussion  of  that  power- 
ful human  trait,  the  unf  amiliar,  the  strange,  the  startling,  the 
unexpected.  The  facility  with  which  sensational  newspapers 
can  work  up  in  an  ignorant  population  a  hate  for  foreign 
nations,  especially  those  of  a  totally  alien  civilization,  is  made 
possible  by  the  fear  which  these  uninformed  readers  can  feel 
at  the  dangerous  possibilities  of  mysterious  foreign  hordes. 
The  fomenting  of  fear  is  in  nearly  all  such  cases  a  prerequisite 
to  the  fomenting  of  hate.  And  the  promotion  of  hate  has  his- 
torically been  one  of  the  frequent  ingredients  of  international 
conflicts. 

Like  love,  hate  is  profoundly  influential  in  modifying  our 
interest  in  persons  and  situations.  To  dislike  a  person  mod- 
erately is,  in  his  absence,  to  be  indifferent  to  him.  To  dislike 
him  intensely,  in  a  sense  increases  our  interest  in  him,  though 
perversely.  Just  as  we  wish  the  beloved  person  to  succeed,  to 
gain  honor  and  reputation  and  wealth,  so  we  long  for  and 
rejoice  in  the  downfall  and  discomfiture  of  our  enemies.  Thus 
writes  the  Psalmist: 

Arise,  0  Lord,  save  me,  my  God;  for  thou  has  smitten  all  mine 
enemies  upon  the  cheekbone;  thou  hast  broken  the  teeth  of  the 
ungodly.  .  .  . 

Thou  hast  also  given  me  the  necks  of  mine  enemies  that  I  might 
destroy  those  that  hate  me. 

Hate  may  be  directed  against  persons,  and  usually  it  is. 
But  hatred  may  be  directed  against  institutions  and  ideas  as 
well.  For  many  persons  it  will  be  impossible  for  a  decade  to 


136  HUMAN  TRAITS 

listen  to  German  music  or  the  German  language,  so  closely 
have  these  become  associated  in  their  minds  with  ideas  and 
practices  which  they  detest.  To  a  dogmatic  Calvinist  in  the 
sixteenth  century,  both  an  heretical  creed  and  its  practition- 
ers, were  objects  of  abomination.  Disappointed  men  may 
take  out  in  a  spleen  and  hatred  of  mankind  their  personal 
pique  and  balked  desires. 

Great  hates  may  be  present  at  the  same  time  and  in 
the  same  persons  as  great  loves.  Indeed  for  some  persons 
strength  in  the  one  passion  is  impossible  without  a  corre- 
sponding strength  in  its  opposite.  We  cannot  help  hating, 
more  or  less,  not  only  those  who  interfere  with  our  own  wel- 
fare, but  with  the  welfare  of  those  who,  being  dear  to  us,  have 
become,  as  we  say,  a  part  of  our  lives.  Thus  writes  Bertrand 
Russell  in  the  introduction  to  his  treatment  of  some  of  the 
radical  social  tendencies  of  our  own  day: 

Whatever  bitterness  or  hate  may  be  found  in  the  movements  which 
we  are  to  examine,  it  is  not  bitterness  or  hate,  but  love,  that  is  their 
mainspring.  It  is  difficult  not  to  hate  those  who  torture  the  objects 
of  our  love.  Though  difficult,  it  is  not  impossible;  but  it  requires  a 
breadth  of  outlook,  and  a  comprehensiveness  of  understanding  which 
are  not  easy  to  preserve  amid  a  desperate  contest.1 

Hate  may  thus  be,  as  great  religious  and  social  reformers 
illustrate,  invoked  on  the  side  of  good  as  well  as  evil.  The 
prophets  burned  with  a  "righteous  indignation."  But  hate 
is  a  violent  and  consuming  passion,  bent  on  destroying  ob- 
stacles rather  than  solving  problems.  It  consumes  in  hatred 
for  individuals  such  energy  as  might  more  expeditiously  be 
devoted  to  the  improvement  of  the  circumstances  which 
make  people  do  the  mean  or  small  or  blind  actions  which 
arouse  our  wrath.  The  complete  meekness  and  humility 
preached  by  Christ  have  not  been  taken  literally  by  the  na- 
tively pugnacious  peoples  of  Europe.  But  as  James  says 
suggestively: 

1  Russell:  Proposed  Roads  to  Freedom,  pp.  xvii-xviii. 


CRUCIAL  TRAITS  IN  SOCIAL  LIFE          137 

"Love  your  enemies!"  Mark  you  not  simply  those  who  do  not 
happen  to  be  your  friends,  but  your  enemies,  your  positive  and  active 
enemies.  Either  this  is  a  mere  Oriental  hyperbole,  a  bit  of  verbal 
extravagance,  meaning  only  that  we  should,  in  so  far  as  we  can, 
abate  our  animosities,  or  else  it  is  sincere  and  literal.  Outside  of 
certain  cases  of  intimate  individual  relation,  it  seldom  has  been 
taken  literally.  Yet  it  makes  one  ask  the  question:  Can  there  in 
general  be  a  level  of  emotion  so  unifying,  so  obliterative  of  differences 
between  man  and  man,  that  even  enmity  may  come  to  be  an  irrele- 
vant circumstance  and  fail  to  inhibit  the  friendlier  interests  aroused. 
If  positive  well-wishing  could  attain  so  supreme  a  degree  of  excite- 
ment, those  who  were  swayed  by  it  might  well  seem  superhuman 
beings.  Their  life  would  be  morally  discrete  from  the  lives  of  other 
men,  and  there  is  no  saying  . .  .  what  the  effects  might  be:  they 
might  conceivably  transform  the  world.1 

Dislikes,  disagreements,  native  antipathies  are  not  to  be 
abolished,  human  differences  being  ineradicable  and  human 
interests,  even  in  an  ideal  society,  being  in  conflict.  But  a 
keener  appreciation  of  other  viewpoints,  which  is  possible 
through  education,  a  less  violent  concern  with  one's  own  per- 
sonal interests  to  the  exclusion  of  all  others,  may  greatly  re- 
duce the  amount  of  hate  current  in  the  world,  and  free  men's 
energies  in  passions  more  positive  in  their  fruits. 

1  James:  Varieties  of  Religious  Experience,  p.  283. 


CHAPTER  VH 
THE  DEMAND  FOR  PRIVACY  AND  INDIVIDUALITY 

Privacy  and  solitude.  Although  one  of  man's  most  power- 
ful tendencies,  as  has  already  been  pointed  out,  is  his  desire  to 
be  with  his  fellows,  this  desire  is  not  unqualified.  Just  as  men 
can  be  satiated  with  too  much  eating,  and  irritated  by  too 
much  inactivity,  so  men  become  "fed  up"  with  companion- 
ship. The  demand  for  solitude  and  privacy  is  thus  funda- 
mentally a  physiological  demand,  like  the  demand  for  rest. 
"  The  world  is  too  much  with  us,"  especially  the  human  world. 
Companionship,  even  of  the  most  desirable  kind,  exhausts 
nervous  energy,  and  may  become  positively  fatiguing  and 
painful.  To  crave  solitude  is  thus  not  a  sign  of  man's  unsocia- 
bility,  but  a  sign  merely  that  sociability,  like  any  other  human 
tendency,  becomes  annoying,  if  too  long  or  too  strenuously  in- 
dulged. Much  of  the  neurasthenia  of  city  life  has  been  at- 
tributed to  the  continual  contact  with  other  people,  and  the 
total  inability  of  most  city  dwellers  to  secure  privacy  for  any 
considerable  length  of  time.  In  some  people  a  lifelong  habit 
of  close  contact  with  large  numbers  of  people  makes  them  ab- 
normally gregarious,  so  that  solitude,  the  normal  method  of 
recuperation  from  companionship,  becomes  unbearable.  Few 
city  dwellers  have  not  felt  after  a  period  of  isolation  hi  some 
remote  country  place  the  need  for  the  social  stimulus  of  the 
city.  But  a  normal  human  life  demands  a  certain  proportion 
of  solitude  just  as  much  as  it  demands  the  companionship  of 
others.  , 

With  the  spread  of  education  and  the  general  enhancement 
of  the  sense  of  personal  selfhood  and  individuality  among 
large  numbers  of  people,  the  demand  for  privacy  has  in- 
creased. The  modern  reader  is  shocked  to  discover  in  the 
literature  of  the  Elizabethan  period  the  amazing  lack  of  a 


PRIVACY  AND  INDIVIDUALITY  139 

sense  of  privacy  there  exhibited.  In  contemporary  society 
this  sense  and  the  possibility  of  its  satisfaction  are  variously 
displayed  on  different  economic  and  social  levels.  In  the  con- 
gested life  of  the  tenements  it  is  almost  impossible,  and  many 
social  evils  are  to  be  traced  to  the  promiscuous  mingling  of 
large  families  (and  sometimes  additional  boarders)  in  con- 
gested quarters. 

The  demand  for  privacy  and  solitude  becomes  acute  among 
people  who  do  a  great  deal  of  mental  work.  "Man,"  says 
Nietzsche,  "cannot  think  in  a  herd,"  and  the  thinker  has  tra- 
ditionally been  pictured  as  a  solitary  man.  This  is  because 
quiet  seems  to  be,  for  most  men,  an  essential  condition  of 
really  creative  thought.  There  are  some  men  who  find  it 
impossible  to  write  when  there  is  another  person,  even  one  of 
whom  they  are  fond,  in  the  same  room.  "No  man,"  writes 
Mr.  Graham  Wallas,  "  is  likely  to  produce  creative  thoughts 
(either  consciously  or  subconsciously)  if  he  is  constantly  in- 
terrupted by  irregular  noises."  Constant  association  with 
other  people  means,  moreover,  continual  distraction  by  con- 
versation which  seriously  interrupts  a  consecutive  train  of 
thought.  The  insistence  in  public  and  college  reading  rooms 
on  absolute  quiet  is  a  device  for  securing  as  nearly  as  may  be 
privacy  in  intellectual  work. 

Privacy  is  again  demanded  as  a  matter  of  emotional  protec- 
tion in  individuals  in  whom  there  is  a  highly  sensitive  develop- 
ment of  personal  selfhood.  We  like  to  keep  our  concerns  to 
ourselves,  or  to  share  them  only  with  those  with  whom  we 
have  a  marked  community  of  interest  and  feeling.  Children 
love  to  "have  secrets  they  won't  tell,"  and  older  people,  es- 
pecially sensitive  and  intelligent  ones,  feel  a  peculiar  sense  of 
irritation  at  having  their  personal  affairs  and  feelings  publicly 
displayed.  Nearly  every  one  must  recall  occasions  where  he 
was  vividly  communicative  and  loquacious  with  a  friend,  only 
to  relapse  into  a  clam-like  silence  on  the  entry  of  a  third  per- 
son. This  is  primarily  due  to  the  fact  that  while  men  are  by 
nature  gregarious,  their  gregariousness  early  becomes  special' 


140  HUMAN  TRAITS 

ized  and  aroused  exclusively  by  people  for  whom  they  develop 
a  sense  of  personal  affection  and  common  sympathy.  Any 
intrusion  from  without  this  circle  becomes  an  intrusion  upon 
privacy. 

Satisfaction  in  personal  possession:  the  acquisitive  instinct. 
An  almost  universal  human  trait  of  considerable  social  conse- 
quence is  the  satisfaction  men  experience  in  having  objects 
that  are  their  own.  Both  animals  and  humans,  apart  from 
training,  display  a  tendency  to  get  and  hold  objects.  This 
tendency  may  take  extreme  forms,  as  in  the  case  of  miserli- 
ness or  kleptomania.  It  is  evidenced  in  special  ways  in  the 
collections  that  children,  and  some  grown-ups,  make  of  mis- 
cellaneous objects  without  any  particular  use,  and  with  no 
particular  aesthetic  value. 

The  objects  which  satisfy  this  instinct  of  possession  may 
include  material  goods,  family,  or  larger  groups.  In  primi- 
tive tribes  under  the  patriarchal  system,  the  patriarch  practi- 
cally owns  the  tribe.  Our  laws  not  so  long  ago  recognized 
the  marriage  relation  as  a  state  in  which  the  wife  is  pos- 
sessed or  owned  by  the  husband. 

Possession  gives  the  owner  various  kinds  of  satisfaction. 
The  instinctive  satisfaction  in  possession  itself  may  be  quite 
irrespective  of  the  values  of  the  objects  owned,  and  depriva- 
tion may  be  fiercely  resisted  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  value 
of  the  objects.  Especially  will  this  be  the  case  if  the  object 
possessed  has  become  surrounded  with  other  emotional  at- 
tachments, so  that  an  individual  may  be  as  bitterly  chagrined 
and  piqued  by  being  deprived  of  some  slight  memoir  or  keep- 
sake as  of  a  large  sum  of  money.  In  the  same  way  the  fight- 
ing spirit  of  a  whole  tribe  or  nation  may  be  aroused  by  the  in- 
vasion or  seizure  of  a  small  and  unimportant  bit  of  land,  or  by 
the  chance  of  its  possession. 

The  instinctive  sense  of  satisfaction,  as  in  the  last  men- 
tioned case  is  enhanced  by  the  sense  of  importance  which 
comes  from  possession,  and  which  enhances  one's  own  indi- 
viduality and  personality.  A  man's  vast  holdings  in  wealth, 


PRIVACY  AND  INDIVIDUALITY  141 

land,  factories,  machinery,  or  private  estates  is,  in  a  sense,  re- 
garded by  him  as  an  extension  of  his  personality.  He  is  con- 
firmed in  this  impression  because  it  is  so  regarded  by  his 
neighbors  and  the  whole  social  group.  A  great  landowner  is 
a  celebrity  throughout  the  countryside,  and,  as  Mr.  Veblen 
points  out,  a  large  part  of  the  luxurious  display  and  expendi- 
ture of  the  leisure  classes  is  their  way  of  publicly  and  conspicu- 
ously indicating  the  amount  of  their  possessions. 

As  in  the  case  of  any  other  strong  native  tendency,  inter- 
ference with  the  instinct  of  acquisition,  whether  displayed  by 
the  individual  or  the  group,  provokes  often  fierce  anger  and 
bitter  combat.  The  history  of  wars  of  aggrandizement 
throughout  the  history  of  Europe  are  testimonies  to  the 
efficacy  of  this  instinct  at  least  in  the  initiation  of  war. 

The  progress  of  civilization  beyond  its  earliest  states  is 
held,  by  some  sociologists  and  economists,  to  be  ascribed  to 
the  power  of  the  acquisitive  instinct.  The  acquisition  of 
material  wealth  or  capital,  the  development  of  the  institution 
of  private  property  with  its  concomitant  individual  develop- 
ment of  land  and  natural  resources  is  maintained  by  Lester 
Ward  to  be  of  paramount  importance  in  social  advance: 

. . .  Objects  of  desire  multiplied  themselves  and  their  possession 
became  an  end  of  effort.  Slowly  the  notion  of  property  came  into 
being  and  in  acquiring  this,  as  history  shows,  the  larger  share  of  all 
human  energy  has  been  absorbed.  The  ruling  passion  has  for  a 
time  long  anterior  to  any  recorded  annals  always  been  proprietary 
acquisition.  .  .  .  Both  the  passion  and  the  means  of  satisfying  it  were 
conditions  to  the  development  of  society  itself,  and  rightly  viewed 
they  have  also  been  leading  factors  in  civilization.1 

There  are  many  other  motives  to  activity  than  acquisition, 
but  there  are  many  evidences  of  its  intense  operation  even  in 
modern  society.  Many  men  go  on  working  long  after  they 
have  money  enough  to  enable  them  to  live  in  comfort,  merely 
for  the  further  satisfaction  of  this  impulse.  "While  in  the 
course  of  satisfaction  of  most  other  desires,  the  point  of  satiety 
1  Lester  Ward:  The  Psychic  Factort  of  Civilization,  p.  166. 


142  HUMAN  TRAITS 

is  soon  reached,  the  demands  of  this  one  grow  greater  without 
limit,  so  that  it  knows  no  satiety."  1 

The  power  of  this  tendency  to  personal  acquisition  and 
possession  seems  an  obstacle  to  all  thoroughly  communistic 
forms  of  political  and  social  organization.  The  conception  of 
a  state  where  nobody  owns  anything,  but  where  all  is  owned 
in  common  —  an  idea  which  has  been  repeated  in  many  mod- 
ern forms  of  socialism  and  communism,  fails  to  note  this  pow- 
erful human  difficulty.  Many  socialist  writers,  it  must  be 
noted,  however,  point  out  that  they  wish  social  ownership  of 
the  means  of  production  rather  than  of  every  item  of  personal 
property,  such  as  books,  clothing,  and  the  like. 

Individuality  in  opinion  and  belief.  Men  frequently  dis- 
play with  regard  to  then:  opinions  and  beliefs  the  same  pas- 
sionate attachment  that  they  exhibit  with  regard  to  their 
physical  possessions.  Like  the  latter,  these  come  to  be  re- 
garded as  an  extension  of  the  individual's  personality,  and 
the  same  tenacious  defense  may  be  made  of  them  as  of  a  house, 
land,  or  money. 

Individual  opinions  and  beliefs  are  not  themselves  posses- 
sions, from  a  social  point  of  view,  so  much  as  is  the  right  to 
express  them.  A  man's  private  opinion  may  influence  his 
own  conduct;  his  conduct  itself  may  be  an  expression  of 
opinion.  But  unless  an  opinion  is  communicated,  it  cannot 
influence  any  one  else's  conduct,  and  society  has  never  been 
much  concerned  about  opinions  that  an  individual  harbored 
strictly  in  his  own  bosom.  Silence,  socially,  is  as  good  as  as- 
sent. The  insistence  on  the  right  to  one's  own  opinions  be- 
comes, therefore,  an  insistence  on  the  right  or  the  freedom  to 
express  them.2  This  right  is  cherished  in  varying  degrees  by 
different  individuals  in  different  ages.  It  becomes  pro- 
nounced in  persons  in  whom  there  is  marked  development 
of  individuality,  and,  in  general,  where,  as  in  Anglo-Saxon 

1  McDougall:  loc.  tit.,  p.  323. 

1  Beliefs  and  opinions  may  come  to  be  regarded  as  important  personal  pos- 
sessions in  themselves,  as  in  the  case  of  rival  claimants  to  some  theory  or 
idea,  as  in  the  case  of  Leibnitz's  and  Newton's  dispute  over  the  calculus. 


PRIVACY  AND  INDIVIDUALITY  14S 

countries,  a  social  and  political  tradition  of  liberty  and  indi- 
viduality has  become  very  powerful. 

Individuality  in  opinion  and  belief  becomes  critical  chiefly 
when  the  opinions  and  beliefs  expressed  are  at  variance  with 
those  generally  current  among  the  group.  For  reasons  al- 
ready discussed  in  connection  with  man's  instinctive  gregari- 
ousness  and  the  emotional  sway  which  habits  of  thought  have 
over  men,  dissent  is  regarded  with  suspicion.  Especially  is 
this  the  case  where  the  dissenting  opinions  have  to  do  with 
new  social  organization  and  custom.  The  psychological 
causes  of  this  opposition  are  various,  but  include  among  other 
things  a  positive  feeling  of  fear. 

It  is  only  recently  that  men  have  been  abandoning  the  belief  that 
the  welfare  of  a  state  depends  on  rigid  stability  and  on  the  preserva- 
tion of  its  traditions  and  institutions  unchanged.  Wherever  that 
belief  prevails,  novel  opinions  are  felt  to  be  dangerous  as  well  as 
annoying,  and  any  one  who  asks  inconvenient  questions  about  the 
why  and  the  wherefore  of  accepted  principles  is  considered  a  pesti- 
lent person.1 

Throughout  history  there  has  been  a  long  struggle  for 
freedom  of  thought  and  discussion,  and  there  have  been  great 
landmarks  in  the  degree  with  which  freedom  was  attained, 
and  the  fields  wherein  it  was  permitted.  For  a  long  time  in 
the  history  of  Europe,  dissent  from  the  prevailing  opinion  on 
religious  matters  was  regarded  both  as  abominable  and  so- 
cially dangerous,  and  was  severely  punished.  Since  the  mid- 
dle of  the  nineteenth  century  there  has  been  no  legal  pun- 
ishment provided  for  dissent  from  established  opinions  in 
religion,  although  penalties  for  heterodoxy  in  countries  where 
religious  opinion  is  strong  and  fairly  unanimous  may  be  ex- 
erted in  other  ways.  In  social  matters  also,  there  has  practi- 
cally ceased  to  be  legal  coercion  of  opinion.2  The  argument 
for  the  suppression  of  individual  opinion  has  been  tersely 
summarized  by  the  author  above  quoted: 

1  Bury:  History  of  Freedom  of  Thought ,  p.  9. 

*  Except  in  the  recent  period  of  excitement  and  stress  during  the  Great 
War.  when  suppression  of  opinion  was,  for  better  or  for  worse,  taken  aa  a 
measure  of  national  defense. 


144  HUMAN  TRAITS 

Those  who  have  the  responsibility  of  governing  a  society  can  argue 
that  it  is  incumbent  on  them  to  prohibit  the  circulation  of  pernicious 
opinions  as  to  prohibit  any  anti-social  actions.  They  can  argue  that 
a  man  may  do  far  more  harm  by  propagating  anti-social  doctrines 
than  by  stealing  his  neighbor's  horse  or  making  love  to  his  neighbor's 
wife.  They  are  responsible  for  the  welfare  of  the  State,  and  if  they 
are  convinced  that  an  opinion  is  dangerous  ...  it  is  their  duty  to 
protect  society  against  it  as  against  any  other  danger.1 

The  social  importance  of  individuality  in  opinion.  There 
have  been  many  notable  documents  in  support  of  the  belief 
that  society  is  the  gainer  and  not  the  loser  by  permitting  and 
encouraging  individuality  in  thought  and  belief.  The  follow- 
ing, taken  from  one  of  the  most  famous  of  these,  John  Stuart 
Mill's  Essay  on  Liberty,  was  written  to  illustrate  the  fatal  re- 
sults of  prohibiting  dissenting  opinions  merely  because  most 
people  think  or  call  them  immoral: 

Mankind  can  hardly  be  too  often  reminded  that  there  was  once  a 
man  named  Socrates,  between  whom  and  the  legal  authorities  and 
public  opinion  of  his  tune  there  took  place  a  memorable  collision. 
Born  in  an  age  and  country  abounding  in  individual  greatness,  this 
man  has  been  handed  down  to  us  by  those  who  best  knew  both  him 
and  the  age,  as  the  most  virtuous  man  in  it.  ...  This  acknowledged 
master  of  all  the  eminent  thinkers  who  have  since  lived  —  whose 
fame,  still  growing  after  two  thousand  years,  all  but  outweighs  the 
whole  remainder  of  the  names  which  make  his  native  city  illustrious 
—  was  put  to  death  by  his  countrymen,  after  a  judicial  conviction, 
for  impiety  and  immorality.  Impiety,  in  denying  the  gods  recog- 
nized by  the  State.  .  .  .  Immorality,  in  being,  by  his  doctrines  and 
instructions,  a  "  corrupter  of  youth."  Of  these  charges  the  tribunal, 
there  is  <every  ground  for  believing,  honestly  found  him  guilty,  and 
condemned  the  man  who  probably  of  all  then  born  had  deserved  best 
of  mankind  to  be  put  to  death  as  a  criminal.2 

Every  important  step  in  human  progress  has  been  a  varia  • 
tion  from  the  normal  or  accustomed,  something  new.  Most 
advances  in  science  have  been  departures  from  older  and 
accustomed  ways  of  thinking.  Through  the  permission  and 
encouragement  of  individual  variation  in  opinion  we  may 

*  Bury:  loc.  cit,,  p.  13.  *  J.  S.  Mill:  Essay  on  Liberty,  chap.  n. 


PRIVACY  AND  INDIVIDUALITY  145 

discover  in  the  first  place  that  accepted  beliefs  are  wrong. 
Galileo  thought  differently  from  the  accepted  Ptolemaic  as- 
tronomy of  his  day,  and  the  demonstration  of  his  diverging 
belief  proved  the  Ptolemaic  astronomy  to  be  wrong.  The 
evolutionary  theory,  bitterly  attacked  in  its  day,  replaced 
Cuvier's  doctrine  of  the  forms  of  life  upon  earth  coming  about 
through  a  series  of  successive  catastrophes.  Lyell,  in  the  face 
of  the  whole  scientific  world  of  his  day,  insisted  on  the  gradual 
and  uniform  development  of  the  earth's  surface.  Half  the 
scientific  doctrines  now  accepted  as  axiomatic  were  bitterly 
denounced  when  they  were  first  suggested  by  an  inquiring 
minority. 

Milton  in  his  famous  Areopagitica,  an  address  to  Parlia- 
ment written  in  1644,  protesting  against  the  censorship  of 
printing,  stressed  the  importance  of  permitting  liberty  for  the 
securing  and  developing  of  new  ideas: 

What  should  ye  do  then,  should  ye  suppress  all  this  flowery  crop 
of  knowledge  and  new  light  sprung  up  and  yet  springing  daily  in  this 
city?  Should  ye  set  an  oligarchy  of  twenty  engrossers  [censors]  over 
it,  to  bring  a  famine  upon  our  minds  again,  when  we  shall  know  noth- 
ing but  what  is  measured  us  by  their  bushel?  .  .  .  That  our  hearts 
are  now  more  capacious,  our  thoughts  more  erected  to  the  search  and 
expectation  of  greatest  and  exactest  things,  is  the  issue  of  your  own 
virtue  propagated  in  us;  ye  cannot  suppress  that  unless  ye  reenforce 
an  abrogated  and  merciless  law.  .  . .  Give  me  the  liberty  to  know,  to 
utter,  and  to  argue  freely  according  to  conscience,  above  all  liberties. x 

Even  if  the  currently  accepted  doctrines  prove  to  be  true, 
there  is,  as  Mill  pointed  out,  a  vast  social  utility  in  permit- 
ting the  expression  of  contrary  opinion  though  it  bo  an  error. 
New  ideas,  however  extreme,  "may  and  commonly  do  possess 
some  portion  of  truth";  they  bring  to  light  and  emphasize 
some  aspect  or  point  of  view  which  prevailing  theories  fail  to 
note.  Thus  the  possible  over-emphasis  of  certain  contem- 
porary writers  on  the  socialization  of  man's  lif e  is  a  valuable 
corrective  to  the  equal  over-emphasis  on  individualism  which 
was  current  among  so  many  thinkers  during  the  nineteenth 

1  Milton:  Areopagitica. 


146  HUMAN  TRAITS 

century.  The  insistence  with  which  present-day  psycholo- 
gists call  our  attention  to  the  power  of  instinct,  though  it  may 
possibly  be  over-emphasized,  counterbalances  that  tendency 
exhibited  by  such  earlier  authors  as  Bentham  to  picture  man 
as  a  purely  rational  being,  whose  every  action  was  deter- 
mined by  sheer  logic. 

Finally,  unless  doctrines  are  subjected  to  criticism  and 
inquiry,  no  matter  how  beneficial  they  are  to  society,  they 
will  become  merely  futile  and  empty  formulae  with  very  little 
beyond  a  mechanical  influence  on  people's  lives.  The  max- 
ims of  conventional  morality  and  religion  which  everybody 
believes  and  few  practice  are  solemnly  bandied  about  with 
little  comprehension  of  their  meaning  and  no  tendency  to  act 
upon  them.  A  belief  becomes,  as  Mill  pointed  out,  living, 
vital,  and  influential  in  the  clash  of  controversy.  Whether 
novel  and  dissenting  doctrines  are  true  or  false,  therefore,  the 
encouragement  of  their  expression  provides  vitality  and  varia- 
tion without  which  progress  is  not  possible. 

The  social  appreciation  of  persons  who  display  marked  in- 
dividual opinions  varies  in  different  ages  toward  the  same 
individual.  The  martyr  stoned  to  death  by  one  generation 
becomes  the  hero  and  prophet  of  the  next.  One  has  but  to 
look  back  at  the  contemporary  vilification  and  ridicule  to 
which  Lincoln  was  subjected  to  find  an  illustration.  Or,  on 
a  more  monumental  scale: 

The  event  which  took  place  on  Calvary  rather  more  than  eighteen 
hundred  years  ago.  The  man  who  left  on  the  memory  of  those  who 
witnessed  his  life  and  conversation  such  an  impression  of  his  moral 
grandeur  that  eighteen  subsequent  centuries  have  done  homage  to 
him  as  the  Almighty  in  person,  was  ignominiously  put  to  death,  as 
what?  As  a  blasphemer.1 

One  would  suppose  that  men  would  have  learned  not  only 
to  tolerate  and  be  receptive  to  novelty  in  belief  after  these 
repeatedly  tardy  recognitions  of  greatness.  There  are  dozens 
of  instances  in  the  history  of  religious,  social,  and  political 

1  Mill:  Essay  on  Liberty,  chap.  xi. 


PRIVACY  AND  INDIVIDUALITY  147 

belief,  of  men  and  women  who,  suppressed  with  the  bitterest 
cruelty  in  one  generation,  have  been  in  effect,  and  sometimes 
in  fact,  canonized  by  posterity.  And  a  certain  degree  of  tol- 
erance and  receptiveness  has  come  to  be  the  result.  But 
while  we  no  longer  burn  religious  and  social  heretics,  con- 
demnation is  still  meted  out  in  some  form  of  ostracism. 
Prejudice,  custom,  and  special  interest  frequently  move  men 
to  suppress  in  milder  ways  extremists,  expression  of  whose 
opinions  seems  to  them,  as  unusual  opinions  have  frequently 
seemed,  fraught  only  with  the  greatest  of  harm. 


CHAPTER 

THE  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  "SELF" 

Origin  and  development  of  a  sense  of  personal  selfhood. 

The  expression  of  individuality  in  opinion  is  only  one  way 
men  have  of  expressing  their  personality,  individuality,  or 
self.  From  the  beginnings  of  childhood,  men  experience  an 
increasing  sense  of  "personal  selfhood"  which  finds  various 
outlets  in  action  or  thought.  So  familiar,  indeed,  in  the  nor- 
mal man  is  his  realization  that  he  is  a  "self,"  that  it  seldom 
occurs  to  him  that  this  conception  was  an  attainment  gradu- 
ally accomplished  through  long  years  of  experience  with  the 
world  about  him.  The  very  young  baby  does  not  distinguish 
between  Itself  and  the  Not-Self  which  constitutes  the  re- 
mainder of  the  universe.  It  is  nothing  but  a  stream  of  ex- 
periences, of  moment  to  moment  pulsations  of  desire,  of  hun- 
ger and  satisfaction,  of  bodily  comfort  and  bodily  pain.  As  it 
grows  older,  it  begins  dimly  to  distinguish  between  Itself  and 
Everything-Else;  it  finds  itself  to  be  something  different, 
more  vivid,  more  personal  and  interesting  than  the  chairs  and 
tables,  the  crib  and  bottle,  the  faces  and  hands,  the  smiles  and 
rattles  that  are  its  familiar  setting.  It  discovers  that  "I  am 
I,"  and  that  everything  else  ministers  to  or  frustrates  or  re- 
mains indifferent  to  its  desires.  It  becomes  a  person  rather 
than  a  bundle  of  reactions.  It  develops  a  consciousness  of 
"self." 

In  its  simplest  form  this  consciousness  of  self  is  nothing 
more  than  a  continuous  stream  of  inner  organic  sensations, 
and  the  constant  process  of  the  body  and  limbs  "and  the 
epecial  interest  of  these  as  the  seat  of  various  pleasures  and 
pains."  This  is  what  James  calls  the  "bodily  self."  As  it 
grows  older,  the  baby  distinguishes  between  persons  and 
things.  And  as,  in  setting  off  his  own  body  from  other  things, 


THE  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  SELF         149 

it  discovers  its  "bodily  self,"  so  in  setting  off  its  own  opinions, 
actions,  and  thoughts  from  other  people,  it  discovers  its  "so- 
cial self."  It  is  because  Nature  does  in  some  degree  the 
"giftie  gie  us  to  see  ourselves  as  others  see  us,"  that  we  do 
discover  our  "selves "  at  all.  " The  normal  human  being,  if  it 
were  possible  for  him  to  grow  up  from  birth  onward  in  a  purely 
physical  environment,  deprived,  that  is,  to  say,  of  both  ani- 
mal and  human  companionship,  would  develop  but  a  very 
crude  and  rudimentary  idea  of  the  self."  l 

The  social  self.  A  man's  social  self,  that  is,  his  conscious- 
ness of  himself  as  set  over  against  all  the  other  individuals 
with  whom  he  comes  in  contact,  develops  as  his  relations 
with  other  people  grow  more  complex  and  various.  A  man's 
self,  apart  from  his  mere  physical  body,  consists  in  his  pecul- 
iar organization  of  instincts  and  habits.  In  common  language 
this  constitutes  his  personality  or  character.  We  can  infer 
from  it  what  he  will,  as  we  say,  characteristically  do  in  any 
given  situation.  And  a  particular  organization  of  instincts 
and  habits  is  dependent  very  largely  on  the  individual's  so- 
cial experience,  on  the  types  and  varieties  of  contact  with 
other  people  that  he  has  established.  There  will  be  differ- 
ences, it  goes  without  saying,  that  depend  on  initial  differences 
in  native  capacity.  But  both  the  consciousness  of  self  and 
the  overt  organization  of  instinctive  and  habitual  actions  are 
dependent  primarily  on  the  groups  with  which  an  individual 
comes  in  contact.  In  the  formation  of  habits,  both  of  action 
and  thought,  the  individual  is  affected,  as  we  have  seen, 
largely  by  praise  and  blame.  He  very  early  comes  to  detect 
signs  of  approval  and  disapproval,  and  both  his  consciousness 
of  his  individuality  and  the  character  of  that  individuality 
are,  in  the  case  of  most  persons,  largely  determined  by  these 
outward  signs  of  the  praise  and  blame  of  others.  And  since, 
in  normal  experience,  a  man  comes  into  contact  with  several 
distinct  groups,  with  varying  codes  of  conduct,  he  will  really 
have  a  number  of  distinct  personalities.  The  professor  is  a 

*  McDougall:  Joe.  cit,.  p.  183. 


150  HUMAN  TRAITS 

different  man  in  his  class  and  at  his  club;  the  judgft  displays  a 
different  character  in  the  court  and  in  the  bosom  of  his  family. 

The  self  that  comes  to  be  most  characteristic  and  distinc- 
tive of  a  man,  however,  is  determined  by  the  group  with 
which  he  comes  most  habitually  in  contact,  or  to  whose  ap- 
provals he  has  become  most  sensitive.  Thus  there  develop 
certain  typical  personalities  or  characters,  such  as  those  of 
the  typical  lawyer  or  soldier  or  judge.  Their  bearing,  ac- 
tion, and  consciousness  of  self  are  determined  by  the  approv- 
als and  disapprovals  of  the  group  to  which  they  are  most 
completely  and  intimately  exposed. 

Both  the  consciousness  of  self  which  most  men  experience 
and  the  overt  expression  of  that  selfhood  in  act  are  thus  seen 
to  be  a  more  or  less  direct  reflex  of  the  praise  and  blame  of  the 
groups  with  which  they  are  in  contact.  Men  learn  from 
experience  with  the  praise  and  blame  of  others  to  "place" 
themselves  socially,  to  discover  in  the  mirror  of  other  men's 
opinions  the  status  and  locus  of  their  own  lives.  As  we  shall 
see  hi  a  succeeding  section,  the  degree  of  satisfaction  which 
men  experience  in  their  consciousness  of  themselves  is  de- 
pendent intimately  on  the  praise  and  blame  by  which  their 
selfhood  is,  in  the  first  place,  largely  determined.  In  the 
chapter  on  the  "Social  Nature  of  Man,"  we  examined  in  some 
detail  the  way  in  which  praise  and  blame  modified  a  man's 
habits.  The  total  result  of  this  process  is  to  give  a  man  a  cer- 
tain fixed  set  of  overt  habits  that  constitute  his  character  and 
a  more  or  less  fixed  consciousness  of  that  character. 

On  the  other  hand,  a  man's  character  and  self-conscious- 
ness may  develop  more  or  less  independently  of  the  immediate 
forces  of  the  public  opinion  to  which  he  is  exposed.  One 
comes  in  contact  in  the  course  of  his  experience  not  merely 
with  his  immediate  contemporaries,  but  with  a  wide  variety 
of  moral  traditions.  Except  in  the  rigidly  custom-bound  life 
of  primitive  societies,  a  man  is,  even  in  practical  life,  exposed 
to  a  diversity  of  codes,  standards,  and  expectations  of  behav- 
ior. His  family,  his  professional,  his  political,  and  his  social 


THE  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  SELF         151 

groups  expose  him  to  various  kinds  of  emphases  and  accents 
in  behavior.  And  a  man  of  some  intelligence,  education,  and 
culture  may  be  determined  hi  his  action  by  standards  whose 
origin  is  remote  in  time,  space,  and  intention  from  those  opera- 
tive hi  the  predominant  public  opinion  of  his  day.  He  may 
come  to  act  habitually  on  the  basis  of  ideal  standards  which 
he  has  himself  set  up  through  reflection,  or  which  he  has  ac- 
quired from  some  moral  system  or  tradition,  far  hi  advance  of 
those  which  are  the  staple  determinants  of  character  for  most 
of  his  contemporaries.  He  may  be  one  of  those  rare  moral 
geniuses,  singularly  unsusceptible  to  praise  and  blame,  who 
create  a  new  ideal  of  character  by  the  dominant  individuality 
of  their  own.  Or,  as  more  frequently  happens,  he  may  follow 
the  ideals  set  up  by  such  a  one,  instead  of  accepting  the  ortho- 
doxies which  are  generally  observed.  He  may  follow  Christ 
instead  of  the  Pharisees,  Socrates  instead  of  the  habit-crusted 
citizens  of  Athens.  We  are,  indeed,  inclined  to  think  of  a 
man  as  a  peculiarly  distinctive  personality,  when  his  sense  of 
selfhood,  and  the  overt  actions  in  which  that  selfhood  finds 
expression,  are  not  determined  by  the  current  dogmas  of  his 
day,  but  by  ideal  standards  to  which  he  has  reflectively  given 
allegiance.  But  so  much  is  the  self,  both  in  its  consciousness 
and  expression,  socially  produced  that  men  acting  on  purely 
imagined  ideal  standards,  current  nowhere  in  their  day  and 
generation,  have  imagined  a  group,  no  matter  how  small  or 
how  remote,  who  would  praise  them  or  a  God  who  noted  and 
approved  their  ways. 

Character  and  will.  From  the  foregoing  it  would  appear 
that  the  self  is  an  organization  of  habitual  tendencies,  devel- 
oped primarily  through  contact  with  other  people  and  more 
specifically  through  their  praise  and  blame.  And  conscious- 
ness of  self  is  the  awareness  of  the  unique  or  specific  character 
of  the  habit-organization  one  has  acquired.  Individuals  dif- 
fer natively  in  given  capacities,  and  differences  in  fully  de- 
veloped personalities  depend,  certainly  in  part,  on  innate 
initial  differences.  But  differences  in  the  kinds  of  selfhood 


152  HUMAtf  TRAITS 

displayed  and  experienced  by  different  men  are  due  to  some- 
thing more  than  differences  in  native  capacities  and  native 
desires.  The  self  that  a  man  exhibits  and  of  which  he  is  con- 
scious, at  any  given  period  of  his  life,  depends  on  the  complex 
system  of  habits  he  has  in  the  course  of  his  experience  devel- 
oped. One  individual  may,  as  we  have  seen,  develop  a  num- 
ber of  sets  of  organized  dispositions,  a  multiple  character,  as 
it  were,  as  a  consequence  of  the  multiplicity  of  groups  with 
which  he  has  come  in  contact.  But  whether  through  deliber- 
ate or  habitual  conformity  to  one  group  as  a  norm,  or  the 
deliberate  organization  of  habits  of  action  and  feeling  and 
thought,  on  the  basis  of  ideal  or  reflective  standards,  a  man 
comes  to  develop  a  more  or  less  "permanent  self."  That  is, 
while  men  start  with  somewhat  similar  native  equipments, 
each  man's  set  of  inborn  tendencies  comes  to  be  fixed  in  a 
fairly  definite  and  specific  system.  While  all  men  start  within 
limits  equally  responsive  and  similarly  responsive  to  all  stim- 
uli, certain  stimuli  come  to  have  the  "right  of  way."  They 
are  more  or  less  easily  and  more  or  less  readily  responded  to, 
according  as  they  do  or  as  they  do  not  fit  in  with  the  habit- 
organization  which  the  individual  has  previously  acquired. 

When  we  say  that  a  man  has  no  character  or  individuality, 
we  mean  that  he  has  developed  no  stable  organization  of  ac- 
tions, feelings,  and  thoughts,  with  reference  to  which  and  by 
the  predominant  drive  of  which  his  actions  are  determined. 
There  is  no  particular  system  of  behavior  which  he  has  come 
consciously  to  identify  as  his  person  or  self;  no  interweaving 
of  motives  and  stimuli  by  the  persistent  momentum  of  which 
his  conduct  is  controlled;  no  single  group  of  stimuli  rather 
than  another  has,  in  his  pulpy  person,  attained  priority  in 
stimulating  power.  Such  men  are  chameleons  rather  than 
characters.  Their  actions  do  not  flow  from  a  selfhood  or  in- 
dividuality at  all;  they  are  merely  the  random  results  of  the 
accidental  situations  in  which  such  men  find  themselves. 
^•^The  self  exists,  then,  as  a  well-defined,  systematic  trend  of 
behavior.  Impulses  to  action  attain  a  certain  order  of  prior- 


THE  DEVELOPMENT  OP  TH^  SELF        153 

ity  in  an  individual's  conduct,  and  it  is  by  the  momentum  of 
these  primary  drives  to  action  that  his  life  is  controlled. 
What  is  commonly  known  as  "will"  is  simply  another  name 
for  the  power  and  momentum  of  a  man's  "personal  self." 
Will  exists  not  as  a  thing,  but  as  a  process.  To  will  an  action 
means  to  identify  it  consciously  with  one's  permanent  self,  to 
weigh  and  support  it  with  all  the  emotions  and  energies  con- 
nected with  one's  consciously  realized  habitual  system  of  be- 
havior. A  man  may  bring  to  bear  on  the  accomplishment  of 
a  given  action  the  deepest  and  most  powerful  motive  forces  of 
his  developed  personality.  To  pass  a  course  or  make  a  team 
a  student  may  marshal  all  the  habits  of  loyalty,  of  self-asser- 
tion (and  the  emotional  energies  associated  with  them)  which 
have  become  the  leading  ingredients  of  his  character. 

The  "permanent  self"  becomes  involved  in  the  same  way 
in  the  case  of  willing  not  to  perform  a  certain  action.  Any 
stimulus  may,  on  occasion,  be  strong  even  if  it  has  ceased  to 
be  characteristic  or  habitual  in  a  man's  behavior.  This  is 
particularly  the  case  with  some  of  the  primary  physical  drives 
to  action.  Even  the  ascetic  feels  the  strong  sting  of  sense- 
desire.  A  man  in  resisting  temptation,  in  denying  the  pres- 
sure of  an  immediate  stimulus,  is  setting  up  to  block  or  in- 
hibit it  all  the  contrary  reactions  and  emotions  which  have 
become  part  of  the  "permanent  self."  In  more  familiar  lan- 
guage he  is  setting  will  over  against  desire.  The  temporary 
desire  may  be  strong,  but  it  is  consciously  regarded  by  the 
individual  as  alien  to  his  "real"  or  "better"  self.  And  will 
is  this  whole  complex  organization  of  the  permanent  self  set 
over  against  an  alien  intruding  impulse. 

The  phenomenon  of  will  contending  against  desire  occurs 
usually  when  a  stimulus  not  characteristically  powerful  in  a 
man's  conduct  becomes  so  through  special  conditions  of  ex- 
citement or  fatigue.  When  a  man  is  tired,  or  stirred  by  vio- 
lent emotion,  his  systematic  organization  of  habits  begins  to 
break  down.  The  ideal  permanent  or  inclusive  self  is  then 
brought  into  conflict  with  a  temporary  passion.  Love  con- 


154  HUMAN  TRAITS 

fliots  with  duty,  the  lower  with  the  higher  self,  flesh  with 
spirit,  desire  with  will.  Few  men  have  so  thoroughly  inte- 
grated a  self  that  such  conflicts  altogether  cease.  Every  one 
carries  about  with  him  a  more  or  less  divided  soul. 

Fire  and  ice  within  me  fight 
Beneath  the  suffocating  night. 

There  are,  in  the  records  of  abnormal  psychology,  many  cases 
of  really  divided  personalities,  cases  of  two  or  more  completely 
separate  habit-organizations  inhabiting  the  same  physical 
body.  Such  a  complete  Dr.-Jekyll-and-Mr.-Hyde  dissocia- 
tion of  a  personality  is  clearly  abnormal.  But  it  is  almost  as 
rare  to  find  a  completely  integrated  character.  We  are  all  of 
us  more  or  less  multiple  personalities.  Our  various  personali- 
ties usually  keep  their  place  and  do  not  interfere  with  each 
other.  Our  professional  and  family  selves  may  be  different; 
they  do  not  always  collide.  But  the  various  characters  that 
we  are  in  various  situations  not  infrequently  do  clash.  The 
self  whose  keynote  is  ambition  or  learning  may  conflict  with 
the  self  whose  focus  is  love. 

"Resolve  to  be  thyself;  and  know,  that  he 
Who  finds  himself,  loses  his  misery  I" 

wrote  Matthew  Arnold.  And  it  does  seem  to  be  true  that  a 
man  whose  will  is  never  divided  or  confused  by  contending 
currents  of  desire,  whose  character  is  unified  and  whose  action 
is  consistent,  is  saved  from  the  perturbations,  the  confusions, 
the  tossings  of  spirit  which  possess  less  organized  souls.  But 
to  find  one's  self,  and  to  keep  one's  self  whole  and  undivided, 
is  a  difficult  achievement  and  a  rare  one.  Even  men  whose 
interests  and  activities  are  fairly  well  defined  find  their  char- 
acters divided  and  their  wills,  consequently,  confused.  A 
man's  duties  as  a  husband  and  father  may  conflict  with  his 
professional  ambitions;  his  love  of  adventure,  with  his  desire 
for  wealth  and  social  position;  his  artistic  interests,  with  his 
philanthropic  activities;  his  business  principles,  with  his  re- 
ligious scruples.  A  man  can  achieve  a  selfhood  by  thrusting 


THE  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  SELF         156 

out  all  interests  save  one,  and  achieving  thereby  unity  at  the 
expense  of  breadth.  There  are  men  who  choose  to  be,  and 
succeed  in  being,  first  and  last,  scholars  or  poets  or  musicians 
or  doctors.  All  activities,  interests,  and  ideals  that  do  not 
contribute  to  that  particular  and  exclusive  self  are  practically 
negligible  in  their  conduct.  Such  men,  although  they  have 
attained  a  permanent  self,  have  not  achieved  a  broad,  com- 
prehensive, or  inclusive  one.  They  are  like  instruments 
which  can  sound  only  one  note,  however  clear  that  may  be; 
or  like  singers  with  only  a  single  song.  All  lives  are  neces- 
sarily finite  and  exclusive;  every  choice  of  an  interest  or  ideal 
very  possibly  precludes  some  other.  A  man  cannot  be  all 
things  at  once;  "the  philosopher  and  the  lady-killer,"  as 
James  merrily  remarks,  "could  not  very  well  keep  house  in 
the  same  tenement  of  clay."  But  a  strong  character  need 
not  necessarily  mean  a  narrow  one,  nor  need  a  determined  will 
be  the  will  of  a  fanatic.  The  self  may  be  —  in  the  case  of  rare 
geniuses  it  has  been  —  diverse  in  its  interests,  activities,  and 
sympathies,  yet  unified  and  consistent  in  action.  A  charac- 
ter may  be  various  without  being  confused;  versatility  is  not 
synonymous  with  chaos.  A  man's  interests  and  activities 
may  be  given  a  certain  order,  rank,  and  proportion,  so  that 
his  lif e  may  exhibit  at  once  the  color,  consistency,  clarity,  and 
variety  of  a  finished  symphony. 

The  consciousness  of  "self"  which  starts  as  a  mere  contin- 
uum of  bodily  sensations  comes  to  be  the  net  result  of  one's 
social  and  intellectual  as  well  as  physical  activities.  The 
"self"  of  which  we  are  conscious  ceases  to  be  our  merely  phys- 
ical person,  and  comes  to  include  our  possessions.  The  house 
we  live  in  and  the  garden  we  tend,  our  children,  our  friends, 
our  opinions,  creations,  or  inventions,  these  become  exten- 
sions and  more  or  less  inalienable  parts  of  our  personalities. 
Our  "selfhood"  includes  not  simply  us,  but  ours. 

Our  possessions,  and  especially  such  as  are  the  fruits  of  our 
own  actions,  are  indications  of  what  we  are.  We  judge,  and 
within  limits  correctly,  of  a  man  by  the  company  he  keeps, 


156  HUMAN  TRAITS 

the  clothes  he  wears,  by  the  books  he  reads,  the  pictures  with 
which  he  decorates  his  home,  the  kind  of  home  he  builds  or 
has  built.  And  a  man  may  feel  as  provoked  by  insult  or  in- 
jury to  the  person  or  things  which  have  become  an  intimate 
part  of  his  life  as  if  he  were  being  attacked  in  his  physical 
person.  Strip  a  man  one  by  one  of  his  physical  acquisitions, 
of  his  associates,  of  the  indications  and  mementos  of  the 
things  he  has  thought  and  done,  and  there  would  be  no  "self" 
left.  To  speak  of  a  man  as  a  nonentity  is  to  imply  that  he  is 
no  "self"  worth  speaking  of;  that  he  can  be  blown  about 
hither  and  thither;  that  neither  his  opinions  nor  desires,  nor 
possessions,  nor  associates  make  an  iota  of  difference  in  the 
world.  A  man  who  is  a  "somebody,"  a  "person  to  be  reck- 
oned with,"  is  one  who  is  a  "self."  He  is  one  whose  physical 
possessions  or  personal  abilities  or  standing  in  the  community 
make  him  one  of  the  "powers  that  be."  And  it  is  the  desire 
to  be  a  factor  hi  the  world,  to  increase  the  scope  and  conse- 
quence of  one's  self  that  is  the  leading  ingredient  in  what  we 
call  ambition,  and  the  desire  for  fame,  and  at  least  one  in- 
gredient in  the  desire  for  wealth.  Men  may  want  wealth 
merely  for  the  sake  of  possession,  or  for  bodily  comfort,  but 
part  of  the  desire  consists  in  the  ability  thereby  to  spread  one's 
influence,  to  be  "one  of  the  happy  sons  of  earth,  who  lord  it 
over  land  and  sea,  in  the  full-blown  lustihood  that  wealth 
and  power  can  give,  and  before  whom,  stiffen  ourselves  as 
we  will  ...  we  cannot  escape  an  emotion,  sneaking  or  open, 
of  dread."  l 

The  enhancement  of  the  self.  The  building-up  of  a  more  or 
less  permanent  self  is  natively  satisfactory  to  most  men,  and 
every  means  will  be  taken  to  increase  its  scope  and  influence. 
Biologically  we  are  so  constituted  as  to  perform  many  acts 
making  for  our  self-preservation.  The  ordinary  reflexes  and 
instincts  such  as  those  which  prompt  us  to  eat,  to  defend  our- 
selves against  blows  and  the  threatening  approach  of  animals, 
to  keep  our  equilibrium  and  recover  our  balance,  are  examples 
of  these. 

1  James:  Psychology,  vol.  I,  p.  203. 


THE  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  SELF         157 

The  development  and  preservation  of  our  social  self  is  also 
made  possible  as  it  is  initially  prompted  by  our  specifically 
social  instincts.  There  is  a  native  tendency,  as  already  noted, 
to  get  ourselves  noticed  by  other  people,  to  seek  their  praise 
and  avoid  their  blame.  The  instincts  of  self-display  and 
leadership,  and  many  of  the  non-social  instincts,  such  as  curi- 
osity and  acquisitiveness,  are  frequently  called  into  play  in 
the  service  of  the  more  directly  social  tendencies  of  the  in- 
dividual. A  large  part  of  our  activity,  whatever  be  its  other 
motives,  is  determined  to  some  degree  by  the  desire  to  de- 
velop the  social  self,  to  be  a  "  somebody,"  to  cut  a  figure  in  the 
world. 

In  the  enlargement  of  the  social  self,  various  people  use 
various  means,  and  with  varying  degrees  of  vigor,  intensity, 
and  persistency.  There  are  a  few  who  go  through  life  with 
almost  no  sense  of  selfhood,  who  go  through  their  daily  rou- 
tine with  no  more  recognition  of  their  acts  as  then*  own  than 
that  displayed  by  an  animal  or  a  machine.  In  most  men  the 
sense  of  their  personality  and  their  interest  in  it  are  high,  and 
the  development  of  the  self  is  sought  in  all  possible  or  legiti- 
mate ways.  The  ways  in  which  the  self  is  developed,  and  the 
kind  of  self  that  is  sought,  help  to  determine  whether  a  man  te 
self-seeking  in  the  lowest  sense  of  that  epithet,  or  idealistic 
and  ambitious  in  the  approved  popular  sense. 

The  kind  of  self  we  seek  to  build  up  depends,  as  we  have 
seen,  largely  on  the  type  of  praise  and  blame  and  the  general 
character  of  the  moral  tradition  to  which  we  have  been  ex- 
posed. But  whichever  type  of  self  a  man  does  select  as  his 
ideal  or  permanent  self,  all  his  activities  will  be  more  or  less 
consciously  and  more  or  less  consistently  controlled  by  it. 
His  habits  of  action,  his  habitual  choices,  his  habitual  feelings, 
will  be  built  up  with  this  ideal  self  as  a  standard  and  control. 
He  will  do  those  things  which  "carry  on"  toward  the  ideal 
self,  leave  undone  those  things  which  do  not.  The  man  or 
woman  who  wishes  simply  to  cut  a  figure  "socially"  will  culti- 
vate the  wit,  the  gayety,  the  facility,  the  smartness,  which  are 


158  HUMAN  TRAITS 

the  familiar  ingredients  of  such  a  personality.  The  same 
persons  will  be  singularly  blind  to  abysses  of  ignorance  which 
would  be  painfully  in  the  consciousness  of  those  who  had 
set  up  for  themselves  ideals  of  erudition  and  culture.  A  la- 
borer will  live  and  move  and  have  his  being  serenely  in  clothes 
and  in  surroundings  that  "would  never  do"  for  a  professional 
man  who  had  committed  himself  to  live  according  to  the 
social  standards  of  his  class.  Sometimes  a  man's  actions  will 
be  directed  toward  the  construction  of  an  ideal  self,  on  stand- 
ards far  in  advance  of  those  of  his  group.  A  man  in  devel- 
oping such  a  self  is,  indeed,  in  some  cases  practically  com- 
mitting social  suicide.  The  extreme  dissenter  from  the 
current  standards  of  action  is  attempting  to  build  up  what 
James  has  well  called  a  "spiritual  self,"  a  self  in  the  light 
of  his  own  ideals,  rather  than  those  current  among  his 
contemporaries. 

Egoism  versus  altruism.  The  individual  in  developing  his 
own  personality  need  not,  necessarily,  be  selfish,  nor  is  the  en- 
hancement of  one's  personality  incompatible  with  altruism. 
One  man  may  find  his  individuality  sufficiently  developed  in  a 
large  bank  account,  another  in  discovering  a  cure  for  cancer; 
one  man  may  seek  nothing  but  gratification  of  his  physical 
appetites;  another  may  find  his  fulfillment  on  the  battlefield 
in  defense  of  the  national  honor.  Since  man  is  born  with  the 
original  tendencies  to  herd  with  and  have  common  sympa- 
thies with  his  fellows,  and  to  pity  those  of  them  that  are  weak 
and  distressed,  there  is  nothing  more  unnatural  about  altru- 
ism than  about  egoism.  It  is  true  that  in  some  men  the  so- 
called  altruistic  impulses,  the  impulse  to  sympathize  with 
the  emotions,  feelings,  aspirations  and  difficulties  of  others, 
and  to  pity  them  in  their  distress,  are  comparatively  weak; 
that  in  some  men  the  more  obviously  egoistic  impulses,  such 
as  the  gratification  of  bodily  desires,  the  acquisition  of  physi- 
cal possessions  are  strong  and  uncontrollable.  But  through 
education  the  altruistic  and  social  impulses  of  men  may  be 
cultivated  and  strengthened,  so  that  they  may  become  more 


THE  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  SELF         159 

powerful  and  dominant  than  even  the  urgency  of  physical 
desire.  "Man  cannot  live  by  bread  alone,"  and  a  man  in 
whom  a  passion  for  reform  or  for  religion,  for  a  cause  or  for  a 
conquest  has  become  strong,  will  sacrifice  food,  sleep,  and 
physical  comfort,  and  may  even  find  the  satisfactory  fulfill- 
ment of  self  in  self-sacrifice  and  obliteration.1 

The  old  distinction  between  egoism  and  altruism  is  thus  an 
artificial  one.  A  genuinely  altruistic  individual  derives  satis- 
faction from  the  beneficent  things  he  does,  though  he  does 
not,  as  Jeremy  Bentham  supposed,  calculate  the  benefits  he 
will  derive  from  his  beneficence.  Altruism  is  just  as  natural 
as  egoism  in  its  origins,  though  the  impulses  of  self-preserva- 
tion and  personal  physical  satisfaction  are  natively  stronger 
and  more  numerous.  But  human  beings  can  be  educated  to 
altruism,  and  find  the  same  satisfaction  in  service  to  others  as 
individuals  reared  in  less  humane  conditions  find  in  satisfying 
their  immediate  physical  desires.  , 

Self-satisfaction  and  dissatisfaction.  Since  the  develop- 
ment of  selfhood  plays  so  large  a  part  in  human  action,  it  is 
natural  that  powerful  emotions  should  be  associated  with  it. 
Individuals  become  conscious  of  the  kind  of  self  they  are  and 
measure  it  favorably  or  unfavorably  with  the  kind  of  self  they 
would  be.  In  so  far  as  the  actuality  they  conceive  them- 
selves to  be  measures  up  to  the  ideal  self,  to  the  fulfillment  of 
which  they  have  dedicated  themselves,  they  have  a  feeling  of 
self-satisfaction,  of  elation.  They  are  jubilant  or  crestfallen, 
satisfied  or  dissatisfied  with  themselves,  in  so  far  as  they  are 
in  their  own  estimation  making  good.  In  normal  individuals, 
these  estimates  of  triumph  and  frustration  are,  of  course, 
colored  and  qualified  by  signs  of  approval  and  disapproval 
from  other  people.  There  are  very  few  —  and  these  insanely 
conceited  —  in  whom  the  opinions  of  others  are  not  largely 
influential  in  determining  their  own  estimates  of  themselves. 

1  This  is  partly  because  man's  sense  of  selfhood  is  so  largely  socially  condi- 
tioned and  affected  by  praise  and  blame.  Many  a  man  in  whom  impulses 
of  an  egoistic  sort  are  strong  cannot  resist  the  scorn  of  his  gang,  club,  or 
clique.  In  tola  sense  even  socially  beneficial  actions  may  be  "selfish." 


160  HUMAN  TRAITS 

The  emotions  themselves  of  self-satisfaction  and  abasement  are  of 
a  unique  sort .  .  .  each  has  its  own  peculiar  physiognomical  expres- 
sion. In  self-satisfaction  the  extensor  muscles  are  innervated,  the 
eye  is  strong  and  glorious,  the  gait  rolling  and  elastic,  the  nostril 
dilated,  and  a  peculiar  smUe  plays  upon  the  lips.  This  complex  of 
symptoms  is  seen  hi  an  exquisite  way  hi  lunatic  asylums,  which 
always  contain  some  patients  who  are  literally  mad  with  conceit, 
and  whose  fatuous  expression  and  absurdly  strutting  or  swaggering 
gait  is  in  tragic  contrast  with  then*  lack  of  any  valuable  personal 
quality.  It  is  hi  these  same  castles  of  despair  that  we  find  the 
strongest  examples  of  the  opposite  physiognomy,  in  good  people  who 
think  they  have  committed  "the  unpardonable  sin"  and  are  lost 
forever,  who  crouch  and  cringe  and  slink  from  notice,  and  are  unable 
to  speak  aloud  or  look  us  in  the  eye. .  . .  We  ourselves  know  how  the 
barometer  of  our  self-esteem  and  confidence  rises  and  falls  from 
one  day  to  another  through  causes  that  seem  to  be  visceral  and 
organic  rather  than  rational,  and  which  certainly  answer  to  no  cor- 
responding variations  hi  the  esteem  in  which  we  are  held  by  ou* 
friends.1 

Self-satisfaction  depends,  as  has  been  said,  on  the  kind  of 
self  we  are  aiming  at,  and  that  in  turn  depends  on  the  kind 
of  self  we  are.  A  professional  bank-robber  may  take  a  crafts- 
man's pride  in  the  skill  with  which  he  has  rifled  a  safe  and 
made  off  with  the  booty,  just  as  a  surgeon  may  take  pride  in 
a  delicate  operation,  or  a  dramatist  in  a  play.  The  ideal  and 
the  measure  of  satisfaction  will  again  be  determined  by  the 
group  among  whom  we  move.  The  bank-robber  will  not 
boast  of  his  exploits  to  a  missionary  conference;  the  surgeon 
will  prefer  to  explain  the  details  of  his  achievement  to  medical 
men  who  can  critically  appreciate  its  technique.  The  ideal 
self  we  set  ourselves  may  far  outreach  our  achievements, 
considerable  and  generally  applauded  though  these  be.  A 
man  may  know  in  his  heart  how  futile  are  his  triumphs,  how 
far  from  the  goals  he  cherished  as  young  ideals.  Many  a 
brilliant  comedian  longs  to  play  Hamlet;  the  gifted  and  schol- 
arly musician  knows  how  easy  it  is  to  win  an  audience  with 
sentimental  and  specious  music.  The  humility  of  genius  has 

1  James:  loc.  tit.,  vol.  i,  p.  307. 


THE  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  SELF         161 

again  and  again  been  noted.    "  The  more  one  knows  the  less 
one  knows  one  knows." 

Many  men  attain  self-satisfaction  through  negation, 
through  a  serene  surrender  of  the  unattainable.  As  the  Epi- 
cureans counseled,  they  increase  then:  happiness  by  lessening 
their  desires.  The  content  which  middle-aged  people  exhibit 
is  not  so  frequently  to  be  traced  to  the  dazzling  character  of 
their  achievement  as  to  then*  resignation  to  their  station. 
Young  people  are  moody  and  unhappy  not  infrequently  be- 
cause they  cannot  make  a  reconciliation  between  what  they 
would  be  and  what  they  are.  Others  again  attain  satisfaction 
vicariously  in  the  achievements  of  others,  as  mediocre  fathers 
do  in  their  brilliant  children,  or  as  sympathetic  and  interested 
people  do  in  the  whole  world  about  them. 

The  magnanimity  of  these  expansive  natures  is  often  touching 
indeed.  Such  persons  can  feel  a  sort  of  delicate  rapture  in  thinking 
that,  however  sick,  ill-favored,  mean-conditioned,  and  generally  for- 
saken they  may  be,  they  are  yet  integral  parts  of  the  whole  of  this 
brave  world,  have  a  fellow's  share  in  the  strength  of  the  dairy  horses, 
the  happiness  of  the  young  people,  the  wisdom  of  the  wise  ones,  and 
are  not  altogether  without  part  or  lot  in  the  good  fortunes  of  the 
Vanderbilts  and  the  Hohenzollerns  themselves.1 

In  some  men  a  modicum  of  success  will  give  a  dispropor- 
tionate sense  of  confidence  and  power.  The  man  to  whom  suc- 
cess has  always  come  easily  is  not  baffled  by  problems  that 
would  appall  those  who,  in  middle  life,  "  lie  among  the  failures 
at  the  foot  of  the  hill."  As  Goethe,  who  had  always  been 
miraculously  successful,  said  to  one  who  came  to  complain 
to  him  about  the  difficulty  of  an  undertaking:  "You  have 
but  to  blow  on  your  hands."  In  a  crowd  one  can  hardly  fail 
to  note  the  easy  air  of  competence  and  confidence  that  dis- 
tinguishes the  successful  man  of  affairs. 

The  contrast  between  the  self  and  others.  The  conscious- 
ness of  self  increases  with  the  expression  of  personal  opinion 
and  power.  The  man  whose  books  are  translated  into  half  a 

1  James:  Joe.  tit.,  vol.  I,  p.  313  (written  in  1880). 


162  HUMAN  TRAITS 

dozen  languages,  to  whose  lectures  people  come  from  all  parts 
of  the  world,  cannot  help  feeling  an  increased  sense  of  im- 
portance, although  he  may  combine  this  consciousness  with  a 
sense  of  personal  humility.  In  the  same  way  a  man  who  ex- 
erts great  social  power,  who  controls  the  economic  lives  of 
thousands  of  employees,  or  whose  benefactions  in  the  way  of 
libraries  and  charitable  institutions  dot  the  land,  develops  in- 
evitably a  sense  of  his  own  selfhood  as  over  against  that  of  the 
group.  He  begins  to  realize  that  he  does  make  a  significant 
difference  in  the  world.  This  was  curiously  illustrated  in  a 
speech  delivered  by  Andrew  Carnegie  when,  after  a  prolonged 
absence  in  Europe,  he  came  back  to  the  opening  of  the  Carne- 
gie Institute,  the  building  of  which  had  cost  him  six  million 
dollars: 

He  said  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  a  realization  of  what  had 
been  done.  He  felt  like  Aladdin  when  he  saw  this  building  and  was 
aware  that  he  had  put  it  up,  but  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  con- 
sciousness of  having  done  it  any  more  than  if  he  had  produced  the 
same  effect  by  rubbing  a  lamp.  He  could  not  feel  the  ownership  of 
what  he  had  given,  and  he  could  not  feel  that  he  had  given  it  away.1 

This  sense  of  incredulity  at  one's  actions  or  achievements 
is  rarer  than  the  consciousness  of  self  which  it  promotes. 
The  intensity  of  this  self-awareness  is  increased  when  opinion 
is  expressed  or  power  exerted  in  the  face  of  opposition.  The 
man  who  finds  himself  standing  out  against  the  community 
in  which  he  lives,  who  is  a  freethinker  among  those  who  are 
intensely  religious,  an  extremist  among  those  who  are  custom- 
ridden,  spiritualistic  among  people  who  are  controlled  by 
materialistic  ideas,  finds  the  sense  of  his  own  personality 
heightened  by  contrast.  When  dissenting  opinions  are  stead- 
fastly maintained  in  the  face  of  the  opposition  of  a  powerful 
majority,  there  develops  a  personality  with  edge  and  strength. 
The  man  who  can  persist  in  his  belief  against  the  prevailing 
winds  of  doctrine  and  of  action  may  be  wrong,  but  he  is  a 

«  Quoted  from  the  bbituary  of  Andrew  Carnegie'  in  the  New  York  Time* 
of  August  12,  1019. 


THE  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  SELF         163 

personality.  He  is  intensely  and  persistently  aware  of  him- 
self. Similarly,  the  exertion  of  power  in  the  face  of  opposition 
increases  the  sense  of  one's  own  power  and  helps  to  consoli- 
date it.  One  derives  from  it  the  same  exhilaration  that  one 
has  in  feeling  a  canoe  under  the  impulsion  of  one's  paddle 
overcome  the  resistance  of  the  water.  In  the  same  way,  the 
exertion  of  social  power  in  the  face  of  obstacles  makes  half  the 
exhilaration  of  politics  and  business  for  some  types  of  men  in 
business  and  political  life.  One  admires  the  ruthlessness  of  a 
Napoleon  at  war  or  of  a  captain  of  industry  in  the  sharp  indus- 
trial competition  of  the  nineteenth  century,  not  because  it  is 
ruthless,  but  because  it  is  power.  Such  men  are  at  least  not 
neutral;  they  are  positive  forces. 

The  contrast  between  the  "self"  and  the  others  may  be 
friendly,  with  a  recognition  of  all  other  selves  as  equally  en- 
titled to  existence.  One  pursues  the  even  tenor  of  one's  way, 
and  is  content  to  let  others  pursue  theirs.  Men  of  very  pow- 
erful personality  have  exhibited  the  utmost  gentleness  and 
consideration  of  others.  Lincoln,  the  typical  strong,  silent 
man,  displayed  a  tenderness  for  the  suffering  and  distressed 
that  has  already  become  proverbial. 

The  contrast  between  one's  self  and  the  world  may  be  one  of 
bitter  opposition,  as  when  one's  ideas  or  actions  are  subjected 
to  social  censure.  As  Mill  argued  over  half  a  century  ago,  the 
forceful  suppression  of  opinion  produces  a  more  violent  mani- 
festation of  it.  Socrates  was  put  to  death,  but  the  Socratic 
philosophy  rose  like  the  sun  in  the  heavens.  A  sense  of  injus- 
tice, of  unfairness,  will  not  only  intensify  a  man's  opinions  but 
his  consciousness  of  his  own  personality.  To  meet  with  oppo- 
sition is  to  feel  acutely  the  outlines  of  one's  own  person;  to 
be  forced  to  recognize  the  differences  between  ourselves  and 
others  is  to  discover  what  sort  of  people  we  ourselves  are. 

The  contrast  is  likewise  one  of  opposition,  sometimes  to 
bitterness,  when  the  individual  seeks  to  impose  his  own 
opinions  or  his  own  personality  forcibly  on  others.     A  Mo-, 
hammed,  fired  with  the  zeal  of  a  religious  enthusiasm,  may 


104  HUMAN  TRAITS 

spread  his  doctrine  by  fire  and  sword  and  be  resisted  by  simi- 
lar violence.  Others  than  the  Germans  have  betaken  them- 
selves to  arms  to  spread  a  specific  and  arbitrary  type  of  life. 
On  a  small  scale  it  is  seen  wherever  a  fanatical  parent  tries  to 
force  his  own  belief  and  type  of  life  upon  his  children,  reared 
in  a  younger  and  freer  generation.  In  contemporary  society 
most  individuals  are  neither  tempted  nor  permitted  to  coerce 
people  to  their  own  way  of  thinking,  although  economic  pres- 
sure and  social  ostracism  are  still  powerful  instruments  by 
which  strategically  situated  individuals  can  force  then:  own 
opinions  or  types  of  life  upon  others. 

Types  of  self.  The  consciousness  of  self  varies  in  its  ex- 
pression and  intensity  and  at  different  tunes  may  display 
different  types  or  combinations  of  types.  No  one  is  ever 
utterly  consistent,  and  different  situations,  different  groups, 
provoke  different  selves  in  us.  Nobody  writes  quite  the  same 
land  of  letter  to  his  different  friends,  or  is,  as  has  been  pointed 
out,  the  same  person  in  different  situations.  But,  except  for 
those  intellectual  will-o'-the-wisps,  or  moral  ne'er-do-wells 
who  take  on  the  color  of  every  new  circumstance  hi  which  they 
happen  to  be  cast,  men  do  develop  predominantly  one  type  of 
self  which  constitutes,  in  familiar  language,  their  character. 

The  manner  of  our  consciousness  of  our  personality  may 
vary  in  quality,  even  though  it  be  intense  in  degree.  One 
may  be  aware  even  of  one's  importance,  without  being  "self- 
important."  One  may  be  quite  conscious  of  one's  significance 
in  the  world  and  yet  not  be  "self -conscious."  It  is  indeed 
usually  the  little  man  who  has  a  great  air  about  him.  The 
officiousness  and  pettiness  of  the  small  soul  invested  with 
authority  has  often  been  commented  on.  Proverbial  wisdom 
has  succinctly  recorded  the  fact  that  empty  barrels  make  the 
most  noise.  Latterly,  Freudian  psychology  has  pointed  out 
the  mechanisms  by  which  insignificant  people  compensate  for 
the  poverty  of  their  person  by  bluster  and  brag.1 

1  On  this  point  see  an  illuminating  brief  discussion  by  Hart  in  The  Paychoi* 

OQM  of  Insanity. 


THE  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  SELF         165 

Self-display  or  boldness.  The  most  obvious  type  of  con- 
sciousness of  self  is  found  in  individuals  who  seek  mere  social 
conspicuousness,  who  spend  no  inconsiderable  part  of  their 
energy  in  deliberate  display.  The  child  says  with  naive 
frankness,  "See  how  high  I  can  jump."  Many  adults  find 
more  conspicuous  or  subtle  ways  of  saying  the  same  thing. 
One  need  only  to  take  a  ride  in  a  bus  or  street  ear  to  find  the 
certain  symptoms  of  self-display.  These  may  consist  in 
nothing  more  serious  than  a  peculiarly  conspicuous  collar  or 
hatband,  or  particularly  high  heels.  It  may  consist  in  a  loud 
voice  full  of  pompous  references  to  great  banquets  recently 
attended  or  great  sums  recently  spent.  It  may  be  in  a  raised 
eyebrow  or  a  disdainful  smile.  There  are  people  among 
every  one's  acquaintance  whose  conversation  is  largely  made 
up  of  reminiscences  of  more  or  less  personal  glory,  of  deliber- 
ate allusions  to  large  salaries  and  famous  friends,  to  glorious 
prospects  and  past  laurels.1 

On  a  larger  scale  this  is  to  be  found  in  the  almost  universal 
desire  to  see  one's  name  in  print: 

There  is  a  whole  race  of  beings  to-day  whose  passion  is  to  keep 
their  names  in  the  newspapers,  no  matter  under  what  heading,  "arri- 
vals and  departures,"  "personal  paragraphs,"  "interviews"  —  gos- 
sip, even  scandal  will  suit  them  if  nothing  better  is  to  be  had. 
Guiteau,  Garfield's  assassin,  is  an  example  of  the  extremity  to  which 
this  craving  for  notoriety  may  go  in  a  pathological  case.  The  news- 
papers bounded  his  mental  horizon;  and  in  the  poor  wretch's  prayer 
on  the  scaffold,  one  of  the  most  heartfelt  expressions  was:  "The 
newspaper  press  of  this  land  has  a  big  bill  to  settle  with  thee,  O 
Lord!"5 

As  was  pointed  out  in  connection  with  praise  and  blame, 
more  of  our  actions  than  we  should  care  to  admit  are  deter- 
mined by  this  desire  for  recognition.  The  loud,  the  vulgar, 
the  notoriety  seekers  are  merely  extreme  illustrations  of  a 
type  of  self  that  most  of  us  are  some  of  the  time. 

1  Almost  every  college  class  has  one  or  two  members  who  enter  vocifer- 
ously and  continuously  into  discussions,  less  for  the  contribution  of  ideaa  or 
information  than  for  the  propagation  of  their  own  personalities. 

1 J auics:  loc.  cit.,  vol.  i,  p.  SOS. 


166 ,  HUMAN  TRAITS 

Self-sufficient  modesty.  The  other  extreme  is  exhibited 
by  the  type  of  personality  that  is  markedly  averse  to  display 
and  shrinks  from  observation.  In  its  intensest  and  possibly 
least  appealing  form  it  is  exhibited  by  people  who  become 
awkwardly  embarrassed  in  the  presence  of  a  stranger,  how- 
ever fluent  and  vivacious  they  may  be  with  their  friends. 
This  type  at  its  best  may  be  described  by  the  epithet  of  self- 
sufficient  modesty.  To  be  such  a  person  may  be  said  to  be  an 
achievement  rather  than  a  weakness.  To  be  self-sufficient 
and  modest  at  the  same  time  means  that  one  is  going  about 
one's  business,  that  one  is  too  absorbed  in  one's  work  to  be 
continually  and  anxiously  noting  what  sort  of  figure  one  cuts 
in  the  world.  To  quote  Matthew  Arnold's  well-known  lines: 

"Unaffrighted  by  the  silence  round  them, 
Undistracted  by  the  sights  they  see, 
These  demand  not  that  the  things  without  them 
Yield  them  love,  amusement,  sympathy."  l 

There  are  in  every  great  university  quiet  great  men  who 
steadily  pursue  vital  and  difficult  researches  without  the 
slightest  reference  or  desire  for  cheap  conspicuousness.  In 
every  profession  and  business  there  are  known  to  the  dis- 
criminating men  who  are  experts,  even  geniuses  in  then1  own 
field,  but  who  shrink  back  from  the  loudness  of  publicity  as 
from  a  plague.  There  are  a  number  of  wealthy  philanthro- 
pists hi  all  our  large  cities  who  consistently  and  steadily  do 
good  works  in  almost  complete  anonymity.  One  finds  in  al- 
most every  department  of  human  activity  these  types  of  self- 
effacing  men  who  find  their  fulfillment  hi  the  work  they  do 
rather  than  in  moving  in  the  aura  of  other  people's  admiration. 

The  positive  and  flexible  self.  But  in  order  to  be  effective 
in  affairs,  some  positive  force  must  be  displayed,  and  mod- 
esty need  not  mean  pusillanimity.  A  frequently  observable 
type  of  personality  —  and  socially  one  of  a  highly  desirable 
sort  —  is  the  type  of  man  who,  himself  standing  for  positive 
convictions,  ideas,  and  principles  of  action,  and  not  casually 

>  Self -Dependence. 


I 


THE  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  SELF         167 

to  be  deflected  from  them,  has  sufficient  flexibility  and  sensi- 
tivity to  the  feelings  of  others,  to  accept  modification.  Such 
a  self  not  only  has  its  initial  force  and  momentum,  but  gains 
as  it  goes  by  the  experience  of  others.  A  personality  must  be 
positive  to  contribute  to  the  solution  of  difficulties  and  the 
management  of  enterprises,  but  it  must  be  receptive  in  order 
to  benefit  by  the  ideas  of  others  and  cooperate  with  them. 
To  have  power  and  humility  at  once  is  sometimes  sufficient  to 
make  a  leader  among  men.  Humility  prevents  us  from  rush- 
ing headlong  along  the  paths  of  our  own  dogmatic  errors;  it 
enables  us  further  to  deal  with  other  people  who  would  be 
simply  antagonized  by  our  flat-footed  insistence  on  every  de- 
tail of  our  own  initial  position.  The  history  of  great  states- 
manship is  in  part,  at  least,  the  history  of  wise  compromise. 
Nor  does  this  mean  sordid  temporizing  and  opportunism.  As 
John  Morley  puts  it: 

It  is  the  worst  of  political  blunders  to  insist  on  carrying  an  ideal 
set  of  principles  into  execution,  where  others  have  rights  of  dissent, 
and  those  others  persons  whose  assent  is  as  indispensable  to  success 
as  it  is  difficult  to  attain.  But  to  be  afraid  or  ashamed  of  holding 
such  an  ideal  set  of  principles  in  one's  mind  in  their  highest  and  most 
abstract  expression,  does  more  than  any  other  one  cause  to  stunt  or 
petrify  those  elements  of  character  to  which  life  should  owe  most  of 
its  savor.1 

Dogmatism  and  self-assertion.  Too  often,  however,  a 
person  of  powerful  and  distinctive  opinions  is  so  moved  by 
the  momentum  of  his  own  strong  enthusiasms,  so  fixed  by  the 
habitual  definiteness  of  his  own  position  that  he  cannot  be 
swayed.  In  its  worst  form  this  is  rampant  egoism  and  dogma- 
tism. All  of  us  have  met  the  loud-mouthed  exponent  of  his 
own  opinions,  who  speaks  whatever  be  the  subject,  as  if  his 
position  only  were  plausible  or  possible,  and  as  if  all  who  gain- 
said him  were  either  fools  or  knaves. 

If  we  examine  the  mental  furniture  of  the  average  man  we  shall 
find  it  made  up  of  a  vast  number  of  judgments  of  a  very  precise  kind 
1  Morley:  On  Compromise,  p.  123. 


168  HUMAN  TRAITS 

upon  subjects  of  very  great  variety,  complexity,  and  difficulty.  He 
will  have  fairly  settled  views  upon  the  origin  and  nature  of  the  uni- 
verse, and  upon  what  he  will  probably  call  its  meaning;  he  will  have 
conclusions  as  to  what  is  to  happen  to  him  at  death  and  after,  as  to 
what  is  and  what  should  be  the  basis  of  conduct.  He  will  know  how 
the  country  should  be  governed,  and  why  it  is  going  to  the  dogs,  why 
this  piece  of  legislation  is  good  and  that  bad.  He  will  have  strong 
views  upon  military  and  naval  strategy,  the  principles  of  taxation, 
the  use  of  alcohol  and  vaccination,  the  treatment  of  influenza,  the 
prevention  of  hydrophobia,  upon  municipal  trading,  the  teaching  of 
Greek,  upon  what  is  permissible  in  art,  satisfactory  in  literature,  and 
hopeful  in  science. 

The  bulk  of  such  opinions  must  necessarily  be  without  rational 
basis,  since  many  of  them  are  concerned  with  problems  admitted  by 
the  expert  to  be  still  unsolved,  while  as  to  the  rest  it  is  clear  that  the 
training  and  experience  of  no  average  man  can  qualify  him  to  have 
any  opinion  on  them  at  all.1 

In  action  as  well  as  opinion  dogmatism  and  unbridled  self- 
assertion  may  be  the  dominant  characteristics  of  a  personal- 
ity. The  man  who  has  a  strong  will  and  little  social  sympa- 
thy will  be  ruthlessly  insistent  on  the  attainment  of  his  own 
ends.  This  type  of  self  has  indeed  been  set  up  as  an  ideal  by 
such  philosophers  as  Nietzsche  and  Max  Stirner,  who  urged 
that  the  really  great  man  should  express  his  own  personality 
irrespective  of  the  weaklings  whom  he  might  crush  in  his 
comet-like  career.  Thus  writes  Nietzsche  in  one  of  his  char- 
acteristic passages: 

The  Superman  I  have  at  heart;  that  is  the  first  and  only  thing  to 
me  —  and  not  man:  not  the  neighbor,  not  the  poorest,  not  the  sorri- 
est, not  the  best. 

In  that  ye  have  despised,  ye  higher  men,  that  maketh  me  hope. 
...  In  that  ye  have  despaired,  there  is  much  to  honor.  For  ye  have 
not  learned  to  submit  yourselves,  ye  have  not  learned  petty  policy. 

For  to-day  have  the  petty  people  become  master;  they  all  preach 
submission,  and  humility,  and  policy,  and  diligence,  and  considera- 
tion, and  the  long  et  cetera  of  petty  virtues. 

These  masters  of  to-day  —  surpass  them,  O  my  brethren  —  these 
petty  people:  they  are  the  Superman's  greatest  danger!  * 

1  Trotter:  Instincts  of  the  Herd,  p.  36. 

*  Thus  Spake  Zarathustra  (Macmillan  edition),  pp.  351-52. 


THE  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  SELF         169 

It  need  scarcely  be  noted  that  even  if  the  genius  6r  Super-' 
man  were  justified,  as  this  philosophy  insists,  on  ruthlessly 
asserting  his  priority,  it  is  a  dangerous  procedure  to  identify 
one's  ambitions  with  one's  desserts.  As  already  noted,  a 
flamboyant  assurance  of  one's  own  importance  is  sometimes  a 
ludicrous  symptom  of  the  reverse. 

The  more  legitimate  manifestation  of  strong  individualism 
in  action  or  opinion  is  in  the  case  of  deeply  conscientious 
natures,  who  will  not  compromise  by  a  hair's  breadth  from 
what  they  conceive  to  be  the  right.  The  fanatic  is  seldom  an 
appealing  character,  but  he  is  a  type  that  enforces  admiration. 
Of  such  unflinching  insistence  are  martyrs  and  great  leaders 
made.  There  are  in  every  community  men  who  will  regard  it 
as  treachery  to  their  highest  ideals  to  compromise  at  all  from 
the  inviolable  principles  to  which  they  feel  themselves  com- 
mitted. Such  men  are  difficult  to  deal  with  in  human  situa- 
tions involving  cooperation  and  compromise,  and  they  exhibit 
frequently  a  rigid  austerity,  bitterness,  and  hate  that  do  not 
readily  win  sympathy.  But  it  is  to  such  men  as  these  that 
many  religious  and  social  reforms  owe  their  initiation.  Ber- 
trand  Russell,  who,  whether  one  agrees  with  him  or  not,  ex- 
hibits a  puritanical  devotion  to  his  social  beliefs,  has  finely 
described  the  type: 

The  impatient  idealist  —  and  without  some  impatience  a  man  will 
hardly  prove  effective  —  is  almost  sure  to  be  led  into  hatred  by  the 
oppositions  and  disappointments  which  he  encounters  in  his  en- 
deavors to  bring  happiness  to  the  world.  The  more  certain  he  is  of 
the  purity  of  his  motives  and  the  truth  of  his  gospel,  the  more  indig- 
nant will  he  become  when  his  teaching  is  rejected.  . . .  The  intense 
faith  which  enables  him  to  withstand  persecution  for  the  sake  of  his 
beliefs  makes  him  consider  these  beliefs  so  luminously  obvious  that 
any  thinking  man  who  rejects  them  must  be  dishonest  and  must  be 
actuated  by  some  sinister  motive  of  treachery  to  the  cause.1 

Enthusiasm.  The  enthusiast  is  another  type  of  self  that 
plays  an  important  part  in  social  life  and  makes  not  the  least, 

1  Russell:  Proposed  Roads  to  Freedom,  pp.  xiii-xiv. 


170  HUMAN  TRAITS 

attractive  of  its  figures.  The  exuberant  exponent  of  ideas, 
causes,  persons,  or  institutions  is  an  effective  preacher, 
teacher,  or  leader  of  men,  and  may  be,  apart  from  his  utility, 
intrinsically  of  the  utmost  charm.  Emotions  vividly  dis- 
played are,  as  already  pointed  out  in  connection  with  sym- 
pathy, readily  duplicated  in  others,  and  the  ardors  of  the 
enthusiast  are,  when  they  have  the  earmarks  of  sincerity, 
contagious.  A  genuinely  enthusiastic  personality  kindles 
his  own  fire  in  the  hearts  of  others,  and  makes  them  appre- 
ciate as  no  mere  formal  analysis  could,  the  vital  and  moving 
aspects  of  things.  Good  teaching  has  been  defined  as  com- 
munication by  contagion,  and  the  teachers  whom  students 
usually  testify  to  have  influenced  them  most  are  not  those 
who  doled  out  flat  prescribed  wisdom,  but  those  whose  own 
informed  ardor  for  their  subject-matter  communicated  to  the 
student  a  warm  sense  of  its  significance.  Leaders  of  great 
movements  who  have  been  successful  in  controlling  the  ener- 
gies and  loyalties  of  millions  of  men  have  been  frequently 
men  of  this  high  and  contagious  voltage.  It  certainly  consti- 
tuted part  of  Theodore  Roosevelt's  political  strength,  and,  in 
more  or  less  genuine  form,  is  the  asset  of  every  successful  po- 
litical speaker  and  leader. 

Both  for  the  one  controlled  by  enthusiasm  and  for  the 
others  to  whom  it  spreads,  experience  becomes  richer  in  sig- 
nificance. Poets  and  the  poetically-minded  have  to  a  singu- 
lar degree  the  power  of  clothing  with  imaginative  enthusiasm 
all  the  items  of  their  experience. 

Enthusiasm  does  not  necessarily  connote  hysteria  or  senti- 
mentalism.  The  unstable  enthusiast  is  a  familiar  type,  the 
man  who  has  another  object  of  eagerness  and  loyalty  each 
week.  Mark  Twain  describes  the  type  in  the  person  of  his 
brother,  who  had  a  dozen  different  ambitions  a  year.  But 
enthusiasm  may  be  a  long-sustained  devotion  to  a  single  ideal. 
A  curious  instance  of  it  was  seen  in  the  case  of  an  Armenian 
scholar  who,  so  it  is  reported  to  the  writer  by  a  student  of 
'Armenian  culture,  spent  forty  years  mgnastering  cuneiform 


THE  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  SELF         171 

script  in  order  to  prove  that  the  Phrygians  were  descended 
from  the  Armenians,  and  not  vice  versa. 

Shelley  could  kindle  the  spirit  of  revolution  in  thousands 
who  would  have  been  bored  to  death  with  the  same  fiery  doc- 
trines in  the  abstract  and  cold  pages  of  Godwin,  from  whom 
Shelley  derived  his  ideas  of  "  political  justice."  The  enthusi- 
ast, since  he  instinctively  likes  to  share  his  emotions,  not  in- 
frequently displays  an  intense  desire  for  leadership,  not  so 
much  that  he  may  be  a  leader  as  that  he  may  win  converts  to 
his  own  cause  or  creed.  Such  a  personality  finds  its  satisfac- 
tion in  some  form  of  proselyting  zeal,  be  it  for  a  religion,  for 
a  favorite  charity,  for  good  books,  poetry,  or  social  justice. 
A  well-known  literary  scholar  who  died  recently  was  thus 
described  by  one  of  his  former  students: 

Dr.  Gummere  was  not  a  teacher;  he  was  a  vital  atmosphere  and 
his  lectures,  as  one  considered  them  from  an  intellectual  or  emo- 
tional angle,  were  revelations  or  adventures.  There  never  were 
such  classes  as  his,  we  believed.  Who  could  equal  him  in  readiness 
of  wit?  Where  was  there  such  a  raconteur?  Who  else  could  put  the 
feel  of  a  poem  into  one's  heart?  .  .  .  His  voice  was  very  deep,  and 
exceedingly  free  and  flexible.  It  always  seemed  to  brim  up  as  from 
a  spirit  overflowing.  Everything  about  him  was  individual  and 
spontaneous.  He  was  perhaps  most  like  a  powerful  river  that  braced 
one's  energies,  and  carried  one  along  without  the  slightest  desire  to 
resist.1 

The  negative  self.  All  the  types  of  personality  or  self  that 
have  thus  far  been  discussed  are  hi  some  way  positive  or 
assertive.  But  the  self  may  be  exhibited  negatively,  in  a 
shrinking,  not  only  from  observation,  but  from  any  positive 
or  pronounced  action.  This  has  already  been  noted  in  con- 
nection with  submissiveness.  Most  people  in  the  presence  of 
their  intellectual  and  social  or  even  their  physical  superior, 
experience  a  sense  of,  to  use  McDougall's  term,  "negative 
self-feeling."  In  some  people  this  negation  or  effacement  of 
the  self  is  a  predominant  characteristic. 

It  may  be  mere  social  timidity,  which,  in  the  case  of  those 

1  Charles  Wharton  Stork:  "A  Great  Teacher,"  The  Nation,  July  26,  1919. 


172  HUMAN  TRAITS 

continually  placed  in  servile  positions,  as  in  the  case  of  the 
proverbial  "poor  relation,"  may  become  chronic.  In  its  most 
disagreeable  form  it  is  exhibited  as  an  obsequious  flattering 
and  a  pretentious  humility.  Of  this  the  classic  instance  is 
Uriah  Heep  in  David  Copperfield: 

"I  suppose  you  are  quite  a  great  lawyer,"  I  [David  Copperfield] 
said,  after  looking  at  him  for  some  time. 

"Me,  Master  Copperfield?"  said  Uriah.  "Oh,  no!  I'm  a  very 
umble  person." 

It  was  no  fancy  of  mine  about  his  hands,  I  observed;  for  he  fre- 
quently ground  the  palms  against  each  other,  as  if  to  squeeze  them 
dry  and  warm,  besides  often  wiping  them,  in  a  stealthy  way,  on  his 
pocket-handkerchief. 

"I  am  well  aware  that  I  am  the  umblest  person  going,"  said  Uriah 
Heep  modestly,  "let  the  other  be  where  he  may.  My  mother  is 
likewise  a  very  umble  person.  We  live  in  a  numble  abode,  Master 
Copperfield,  but  have  much  to  be  thankful  for.  My  father's  former 
calling  was  umble.  He  was  a  sexton." 

"What  is  he  now?"  I  asked. 

"He  is  a  partaker  of  glory,  at  present,  Master  Copperfield,  but  we 
have  much  to  be  thankful  for.  How  much  have  I  to  be  thankful  for, 
in  living  with  Mr.  Wickfield." 

Negative  self-feeling  may  be  provoked  by  a  genuine  sense 
of  unworthiness  or  modesty,  and  when  this  takes  place  among 
religious  people,  it  may  become  a  complete  and  rapturous 
submissiveness  to  God.  The  records  of  many  mediaeval  and 
of  some  modern  mystics  emphasize  this  complete  yielding  to 
the  will  of  God,  and  in  His  will  finding  peace.  James  quotes 
in  this  connection  Pascal's  Priere  pour  bien  user  Us  maladies: 

I  ask  you,  neither  for  health  nor  for  sickness,  for  life  nor  for  death; 
but  that  you  may  dispose  of  my  health  and  my  sickness,  my  life  and 
my  death,  for  your  glory.  .  .  .  You  alone  know  what  is  expedient 
for  me;  you  are  the  sovereign  master;  do  with  me  according  to  your 
will.  Give  to  me,  or  take  away  from  me,  only  conform  my  will  to 
yours.  I  know  but  one  thing,  Lord,  that  it  is  good  to  follow  you,  and 
bad  to  offend  you.  Apart  from  that,  I  know  not  what  is  good  or  bad 
in  anything.  I  know  not  which  is  most  profitable  to  me,  health  or 
sickness,  wealth  or  poverty,  nor  anything  else  in  the  world.  That 
discernment  is  beyond  the  power  of  men  or  angels,  and  is  hidden 


THE  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  SELF         173 

among  the  secrets  of  your  Providence,  which  I  adore,  but  do  not 
seek  to  fathom.1 

Self-surrender,  however,  takes  other  forms  than  religious 
absorption  or  devotion.  "Saintliness"  is  not  unknown  in 
secular  forms  of  life,  in  the  devotion  of  men  to  any  ideal, 
despite  pain  and  privation  of  worldly  goods  and  successes. 
The  doctor  sacrificing  his  life  in  a  leper  colony  is  an  extreme 
example.  But  something  of  the  same  humility  and  submis- 
siveness  is  exhibited  every  time  a  man  makes  a  choice  which 
places  the  welfare  of  other  people  before  his  own  immediate 
success.  It  is  shown  by  the  thousands  of  physicians  and 
settlement  workers  and  teachers  who  spend  their  lives  in 
patient  devotion  to  labors  that  bring  little  remuneration  and 
as  little  glory.  Men  of  affairs  and  a  large  proportion  of  other 
men  generally  measure  worth  by  worldly  success.  But  even 
from  the  worldly,  such  signs  of  self-surrender  elicit  admiration. 

Eccentrics.  There  is  one  type  of  self  so  various  and  miscel- 
laneous that  it  can  only  be  subsumed  under  the  general  epi- 
thet, "eccentric."  These  are  the  unexpectedly  large  number 
of  individuals  hi  our  civilization  who  do  not  come  under  any 
of  the  usual  categories,  who  display  some  small  or  great  ab- 
normality which  sets  them  off  from  the  general  run  of  men. 
That  some  of  these  are  accounted  eccentric  is  to  be  explained 
in  the  light  of  man's  tendency,  as  a  gregarious  animal,  to 
think  "queer"  and  "freakish"  anything  off  the  beaten  track. 
Some  are  clearly  and  unmistakably  abnormal  in  some  physio- 
logical or  psychological  respect.  From  these  are  recruited 
the  inmates  of  our  penitentiaries  and  insane  asylums  and  the 
candidates  for  them.  But  there  are  eccentricities  of  social 
behavior,  types  of  personality  which  though  they  cannot  be 
classed  as  either  insane  or  criminal,  yet  definitely  set  an 
individual  apart. 

These  include  what  Trotter  has  called  the  "mentally  un- 
stable," as  set  over  against  "the  great  class  of  normal,  sen- 
sible, reliable  middle  age,  with  its  definite  views,  its  resiliency 

1  Quoted  in  James:  Varieties  of  BeUgiout  Experience,  p.  286. 


174  HUMAN  TRAITS 

to  the  depressing  influence  of  facts,  and  its  gift  for  forming 
the  backbone  of  the  State."  There  are  the  large  group  of 
slightly  neurasthenic,  made  so,  in  part,  by  the  high  nervous 
tension  under  which  modern,  especially  modern  urban,  life  is 
lived.  These  include  what  are  commonly  called  the  hyster- 
ical or  over-emotional,  or  "temperamental"  types.  In  a 
civilization  where  most  professions  demand  regularity,  re- 
straint, punctuality,  and  directness,  unstability  and  excess 
emotionalism  are  necessarily  at  a  discount.  There  are  the 
vagabond  types  who,  like  young  Georges,  Jean-Christophe's 
prote'ge',  regard  a  profession  as  a  prison  house,  in  which  most 
of  one's  capacities  are  cruelly  confined.  There  are  again 
those  who,  possessing  singular  and  exclusive  sensitivity  to 
aesthetic  values,  to  music,  art,  and  poetry,  find  the  world  out- 
side their  own  lyric  enthusiasms  flat,  stale,  and  unprofitable. 
If,  as  so  frequently  happens,  these  combine,  along  with  then- 
peculiar  temperaments,  little  genius  and  slender  means,  social 
and  economic  life  becomes  for  them  a  blind  alley.  Every  year 
at  our  great  universities  we  see  small  groups  of  young  men, 
who,  having  spent  three  or  four  years  on  philosophy,  litera- 
ture, and  the  liberal  arts,  and  having  no  interest  in  academic 
life,  are  put  to  it  to  find  a  profession  in  which  they  can  find  a 
genuine  interest  or  possible  success. 

Among  these  "eccentrics  "a  few  have  been  reckoned  gen- 
iuses by  their  contemporaries  or  by  posterity.  In  such  cases 
society  hesitates  to  apply  its  usual  formulae.  One  cannot 
condemn  out  of  hand  a  Shelley.  He  is  not  of  the  run  of  men. 

Shelley  was  one  of  those  spokesmen  of  the  a  priori,  one  of  those 
nurslings  of  the  womb,  like*,  bee  or  a  butterfly,  a  dogmatic,  inspired, 
perfect,  and  incorrigible  creature.  .  .  .  Being  a  finished  child  of 
nature,  not  a  joint  product,  like  most  of  us,  of  nature,  history,  and 
society,  he  abounded  miraculously  in  his  own  clear  sense,  but  was 
obtuse  to  the  droll  miscellaneous  lessons  of  fortune.  The  cannonade 
of  hard  inexplicable  facts  that  knocks  into  most  of  us  what  little 
wisdom  we  have,  left  Shelley  dazed  and  sore,  perhaps,  but  unin- 
etructed.1.  .  ^:  . 

1  Santayana:  Winds  of  Doctrine;  Shelley,  p.  150. 


THE  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  SELF         175 

It  is  difficult  to  draw  the  line  in  some  cases  between  genius 
and  insanity. l  There  have  been  time  and  again  in  society 
Cassandras  who  have  spoken  true  prophecies  and  have  been 
thought  mad.  There  have  been,  on  the  other  hand,  those 
who,  having  some  of  the  external  eccentricities  of  genius, 
have  given  an  illusive  impression  of  greatness.  The  pro- 
fessional Bohemian  likes  to  make  himself  great  by  wearing 
his  hair  long  and  living  in  a  garret.  But  it  is  unquestionably 
true  that  a  highly  sensitive  and  creative  mind  is  often  ill  at 
ease  in  the  world  of  action,  and  remains  a  vagabond,  an 
enfant  terrible  or  an  eccentric  all  through  life.  It  remains 
a  fact  that  in  contemporary  society  there  are  a  small  number 
of  people,  some  of  them  of  considerable  talents,  who  simply 
cannot  be  made  to  fit  into  the  social  routine.  For  such 
Bertrand  Russell  suggests  a  "vagabond's  wage."  This  he 
conceives  as  being  just  large  enough  to  enable  them  to  get 
along,  to  give  them  a  chance  to  wander  and  experiment,  but 
sufficiently  small  to  penalize  them  for  not  settling  down  to 
the  accustomed  social  routines.1 

Mill  has  generalized  the  situation  of  the  genius: 

Persona  of  genius,  it  is  true,  are,  and  are  always  likely  to  be,  a 
small  minority;  but  in  order  to  have  them,  it  is  necessary  to  preserve 
the  soil  in  which  they  grow.  Genius  can  only  breathe  freely  in  an 
atmosphere  of  freedom.  Persons  of  genius  are,  ex  vi  termini,  more 
individual  than  any  other  people  —  less  capable,  consequently,  of 
fitting  themselves,  without  hurtful  compression,  into  any  of  the  small 
number  of  moulds  which  society  provides  in  order  to  save  its  mem- 
bers the  trouble  of  forming  their  own  character.  ...  If  they  are  of  a 

1  Thus  Plato:  "But  he  who,  not  being  inspired  and  having  no  touch  of 
madness  in  his  soul,  comes  to  the  door  and  thinks  that  he  will  get  into  the 
temple  by  the  help  of  art  —  he,  I  say,  and  his  poetry  are  not  admitted ;  the 
sane  man  is  nowhere  at  all  when  he  enters  into  rivalry  with  the  madman." 
Ph&drus  (Jowett  translation),  p.  550. 

1  Russell:  Proposed  Roads  to  Freedom,  p.  177.  There  was  recently  intro- 
duced to  the  writer  a  boy,  aged  nineteen,  for  whom  this  would  be  an  admir- 
able solution.  Brought  up  in  a  tenement  and  working  as  a  clerk,  this 
youngster  wrote  what  competent  judges  pronounced  to  be  really  extraordi- 
nary lyrics.  He  was  at  the  same  time  utterly  helpless  in  the  world  of  affairs. 
Even  at  college  his  casual  habits  and  absorption  would  have  prevented  him 
from  getting  through  his  freshman  year. 


176  HUMAN  TRAITS 

strong  character,  and  break  their  fetters,  they'  become  a  mark  for 
the  society  which  has  not  succeeded  in  reducing  them  to  common- 
place, to  point  at  with  solemn  warning  as  "wild,"  "erratic,"  and  the 
like;  much  as  if  one  should  complain  of  the  Niagara  River  for  not 
flowing  smoothly  between  its  banks,  like  a  Dutch  canal.1 

The  active  and  the  contemplative.  One  final  distinction 
must  be  made,  one  that  cuts  across  all  the  types  of  self  hith- 
erto discussed,  namely,  the  distinction  between  the  man  of 
action  and  the  man  of  thought.  One  need  not  go  far  in  liter- 
ature or  in  life  to  find  the  contrast  made.  In  the  Scriptures 
Mary  is  set  over  against  Martha,  Rachel  against  Leah. 
Hamlet  and  Ulysses  are  permanent  representations  of  the 
melancholy  thinker  and  the  exuberant  adventurer.  The 
business  man  and  the  executive  may  be  put  over  against  the 
poet  and  the  scholar;  the  strenuous  organizer  and  adminis- 
trator over  against  the  quiet  philosopher.  Both  have  their 
outstanding  uses,  and,  in  their  extreme  forms,  their  out- 
standing defects.  The  active  type,  as  we  say,  "gets  things 
done."  He  builds  bridges  and  industries;  he  manages  mar- 
kets and  men.  His  eye  is  on  the  practical;  he  is  dependable, 
rapid,  and  efficient.  In  an  industrial  civilization  he  is  the 
great  heroic  type.  The  statesman  and  the  railroad  builder, 
the  newspaper  editors  and  the  political  leaders  captivate  the 
imaginations  as  they  control  the  destinies  of  mankind. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  are  those  who  stand  aside  (either 
from  incapacity  or  disinclination  or  both)  from  the  manage- 
ment of  affairs  and  the  life  of  action,  and  spend  their  lives  in 
observation  and  contemplation.  Plato  and  Aristotle  regarded 
this  as  the  highest  type  of  life;  it  may  have  been  because  they 
were  themselves  both  philosophers.  In  its  extreme  form  it 
is  exhibited  in  such  men  as  Spinoza  or  Kant,  spending  then* 
lives  in  practical  obscurity,  speculating  on  tune  and  space  and 
eternity.  But  it  is  apparent  in  less  extreme  types.  The 
"patient  observer,"  the  genial  spectator  of  other  men's  actions 
is  not  infrequent.  When  he  has  literary  gifts  he  is  a  phi- 

1  Mill:  Essay  on  Liberty,  chap.  in. 


THE  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  SELF        177 

losopher  or  a  poet.    Lucretius  in  a  famous  passage  stated  the 
contemplative  ideal,  contrasting  it  with  its  opposite: 

Sweet  it  is  when  on  the  great  seas  the  winds  are  buffeting,  to  gaze 
from  the  land  on  another's  great  struggles;  not  because  it  is  pleasure 
or  joy  that  any  one  should  be  distressed,  but  because  it  is  sweet  to  per- 
ceive from  what  misfortunes  you  yourself  are  free.  Sweet  is  it,  too, 
to  behold  great  contests  of  war  in  full  array  over  the  plains,  when  you 
have  no  part  in  the  danger.  But  nothing  is  more  gladdening  than 
to  dwell  hi  the  calm  high  places,  firmly  embattled  on  the  heights  by 
the  teaching  of  the  wise,  whence  you  can  look  down  on  others,  and 
see  them  wandering  hither  and  thither  and  going  astray,  as  they  seek 
the  way  of  life,  in  strife  matching  their  wits  or  rival  claims  of  birth, 
struggling  night  and  day  by  surpassing  effort  to  rise  up  to  the  height 
of  power  and  gain  possession  of  the  world.1 

But  in  the  two  types  it  is  not  the  fruit  of  action  or  contem- 
plation, but  action  and  contemplation  themselves  that  the 
two  types  find  respectively  interesting.  The  man  of  action 
finds  an  immediate  satisfaction  in  movement,  change,  the 
clamor  of  affairs,  the  contacts  with  other  people,  the  making 
of  changes  in  the  practical  world.  The  man  of  thought  finds 
as  immediate  enjoyment  in  noting  the  ways  of  men,  and  re- 
flecting upon  them. 

That  contemplation,  disinterested  thinking,  also  has  its  use 
goes  without  saying.  The  thinker  and  the  dreamer  may  be 
something  at  least  of  what  the  Irish  poet  boasts: 

"...  the  movers  and  shakers 
Of  the  world,  forever,  it  seems." 

The  scholar,  the  thinker,  the  man  who  stands  aside  from 
immediate  action,  may,  often  does,  help  the  world  of  action 
in  a  far-reaching  way.  The  researches  of  a  Newton  make 
possible  eventually  the  feats  of  modern  engineering  and  teleg- 
raphy; the  abstruse  study  of  the  calculus  helps  to  build 
bridges  and  skyscrapers. 

Both  types,  in  their  extremes,  have  their  weaknesses.  The 
extremely  practical  man  "may  cut  off  the  limb  upon  which 
he  is  sitting,"  or  "see  no  further  than  the  end  of  his  nose."  A 

1  Lucretius:  DC  Rerun  Natura  (Bailey  translation),  book  n,  line*  1-12. 


178  HUMAN  TRAITS 

really  great  administrator  is  not  penny-wise;  he  thinks  far 
ahead,  around  and  into  a  problem.  He  is  concerned  for  to- 
morrow as  well  as  to-day.  The  contemplative  man  may 
come  to  be  "sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought." 
There  is  the  hero  of  one  Russian  novel  who  reflects  through 
three  hundred  pages  on  his  wasted  life,  all  at  the  ripe  age  of 
twenty-three.1  The  practical  man  gains  width  and  insight 
by  checking  himself  with  reflection;  the  contemplative  finds 
thought  called  home  and  made  meaningful  by  contacts  with 
the  world.  It  was  something  of  this  balance  which  Plato 
had  in  mind  when  he  insisted  that  his  future  philosopher-king 
should,  after  fifteen  years'  study,  go  for  fifteen  years  into  the 
"cave"  or  world  to  learn  to  deal  with  men  and  affairs.  The 
"mere  theorist"  is  often  an  absurd  if  not  a  dangerous  char- 
acter; the  practical  man  may  ceme  to  make  the  wheels  go 
round  without  ever  taking  note  of  his  direction. 

As  pointed  out  in  the  beginning  of  this  discussion,  no  one 
of  these  types  is  exclusively  exemplified  in  any  one  individual. 
To  be  exclusively  any  one  of  these  would  be  to  be  a  caricature 
rather  than  a  character.2  But  to  be  no  one  of  these  types  to 
any  degree  at  all  is  to  be  no  character  at  all,  is  to  be  socially  a 
nonentity,  a  minus  quantity;  it  is  to  be  determined  by  the 
vicissitudes  of  chance  or  circumstance;  it  is  to  be  a  succession 
of  vacillations  rather  than  a  distinctive  self-determined  per- 
sonality. Each  of  these  types,  moreover,  if  Hot  extreme,  has 
its  specific  excellences,  and  their  various  presence  lends  rich- 
ness and  diversity  to  social  life. 

Emotions  aroused  in  the  maintenance  of  the  self.  These 
various  types  of  self  may  be  defended  with  bitterness  and 

1  Contchareff:  Oblomoff. 

1  Dickens's  success  lay,  perhaps  chiefly,  in  his  ability  to  draw  these  unfor- 
gettable exaggerations,  these  outstanding  types:  "Micawber"  waiting  for 
something  to  turn  up;  the  fiendish  cruelty  of  "Bill  Sikes";  the  angelic  self- 
effacement  of  "Little  Nell";  the  hypocritical  "Mr.  Pecksniff";  the  gossipy 
"Sairy  Gamp."  He  had  a  unique  gift  for  representing  psychological  traits 
in  large.  The  so-called  psychological  novelists  like  Meredith,  trace  a  char- 
acter through  its  moods  and  Suctuations,  making  truer,  more  composite, 
though  less  memorable  characters. 


THE  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  SELF        179 

pertinacity,  and  in  their  support  the  most  powerful  emotions 
may  be  enlisted.  As  pointed  out  in  connection  with  individu- 
ality in  opinion,  men  may  be  willing  to  die  for  their  beliefs. 
Similarly  invasion  of  one's  home,  infringement  or  threat 
against  what  one  regards  as  one's  rights  or  one's  possessions, 
whether  physical  or  social,  may  be  bitterly  contested.  And 
in  this  conflict  in  support  of  the  integrity  of  the  self,  anger, 
hate,  fear,  submissiveness,  all  the  nuances  of  emotion  may  be 
aroused.  The  themes  of  great  tragedy  are  built  largely  on 
this  theme  of  insistent  selfhood.  Any  obstruction  of  the  self- 
integrity  one  has  set  one's  self  may  provoke  a  violent  reaction. 
It  may  be  interference  with  one's  love,  as  in  the  case  of  Medea 
or  Othello,  the  pain  of  ingratitude  as  in  Lear,  the  conflict 
between  "the  lower  and  the  higher  self,"  as  in  the  case  of 
Macbeth's  loyalty  and  his  ambition.  These  are  the  staple 
materials  of  drama.  In  common  experience,  an  insult  to  one's 
wife  or  friend,  an  obstacle  placed  in  the  way  of  one's  profes- 
sional career,  deprivation  of  one's  liberty  or  one's  property, 
or  one's  unhindered  "pursuit  of  happiness,"  are  the  provoca- 
tions to  violent  emotions  in  the  sustaining  of  the  self.  How 
violent  or  what  form  the  reaction  will  take  depends  on  the 
situation  of  the  "self"  involved.  If  one  has  been  grossly  in- 
sulted by  another  upon  whom  one  is  utterly  dependent  so- 
cially and  economically,  a  rankling  and  impotent  rage  may  be 
the  only  outlet.  To  a  person  gifted  with  humility,  the  disil- 
lusions of  a  false  friendship  may  provoke  nothing  more  than 
a  deep  but  resigned  disappointment.  Where  passion  and 
determination  run  high,  and  retaliation  is  feasible,  a  violent 
hate  may  find  violent  fulfillment.  In  earlier  and  more 
bloodthirsty  days,  the  dagger,  the  duel,  and  poison  were,  as 
illustrated  in  the  history  of  the  Borgias,  ways  of  maintain- 
ing the  self  and  venting  one's  anger  or  revenge.  Even  in 
modern  society  the  still  distressingly  large  number  of  crimes 
of  violence  may  be  traced  in  many,  perhaps  most  cases,  to 
blind  and  bitter  hate.  To  any  deep  personal  injury,  hate, 
whether  it  takes  overt  form  or  not,  is  still  the  instinctive 


180  HUMAN  TRAITS 

answer;  just  such  hate  as  Euripides  represents  in  the  jealous 
Medea,  when  she,  a  barbarian  captive  among  the  Greeks, 
sees  Jason,  her  lover,  about  to  be  married  to  a  Greek  princess: 
"...  But  I,  being  citiless,  am  cast  aside, 
By  him  that  wedded  me,  a  savage  bride. 


"I  ask  one  thing.    If  chance  yet  ope  to  me 
Some  path,  if  even  now  my  hand  can  win, 
Strength  to  requite  this  Jason  for  his  sin, 
Betray  me  not!    Oh,  in  all  things  but  this, 
I  know  how  full  of  fears  a  woman  is, 
And  faults  at  need,  and  shrinking  from  the  light 
Of  battle;  but  once  spoil  her  of  her  right 
In  man's  love,  and  there  moves,  I  warn  thee  well, 
No  bloodier  spirit  between  Heaven  and  Hell." l 

In  defense  of  the  self  in  its  narrower  or  broader  sense,  cour- 
age and  heroism  may  be  displayed.  The  martyr  will  die 
rather  than  submit;  there  have  been  many  to  whom  Patrick 
Henry's  "Give  me  Liberty  or  give  me  death,"  was  something 
more  than  rhetoric.  The  self  for  which  we  will  fight,  of  course, 
varies.  A  spoilt  child  will  go  into  a  paroxysm  of  rage  if  its 
toy  is  taken  away.  Older  people  will  fight  for  smaller  or 
larger  points  of  social  position.  There  is  the  familiar  citizen 
who  will  insist  on  his  rights,  often  of  a  petty  sort,  in  a  hotel, 
theater,  or  department  store.  Or  a  man  may  display  the  last 
extremity  of  courage  in  defense  of  some  ideal,  as  in  a  man's 
surrender  of  his  life  for  his  country.  Something  of  the  same 
heroism  is  displayed  by  individuals  who  stand  out  against 
their  group  in  the  face  of  ridicule  or  persecution.  It  is  the 
general  sympathy  with  the  desire  to  preserve  one's  selfhood 
untarnished  that  gives  point  to  Henley's  lines: 

"Out  of  the  night  that  covers  me, 

Black  as  the  pit  from  pole  to  pole, 
I  thank  whatever  gods  may  be 
For  my  unconquerable  soul. 

"It  matters  not  how  strait  the  gate, 

How  charged  with  punishments  the  scroll, 
I  am  the  master  of  my  fate, 
I  am  the  captain  of  my  soul."  * 

1  Euripides:  Medea  (Gilbert  Murray  translation),  p.  16.  *  Invictue. 


THE  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  SELF        181 

In  the  same  way  as  the  emotions  fear,  anger,  and  hate,  and 
their  variations  and  degrees,  may  be  aroused  by  attack  or 
threat  against  the  self,  so  help  and  encouragement  of  an  indi- 
vidual's selfhood  arouse  love,  affection,  and  gratitude.  Even 
our  affection  for  our  parents,  though  in  part  instinctive,  is 
undoubtedly  increased  by  the  care  and  persistence  with  which 
they  have  fostered  our  own  life  and  hopes,  have  educated  us, 
and  made  possible  for  us  a  career.  The  same  motives  play  a 
part  in  our  affection  for  teachers  who  have  beneficently  influ- 
enced our  lives,  for  other  older  people  who  "give  us  a  start," 
advice  and  encouragement  or  financial  aid.  Even  the  love  of 
God  has  in  religious  ritual  been  colored  with  gratitude  for 
God's  mercies  and  benevolences. 

The  individuality  of  groups.  Groups  may  display  the  same 
individuality  and  sense  of  selfhood  as  is  exhibited  by  indi- 
viduals. And  the  members  of  the  group  may  come  to  regard 
the  group  lif  e  as  something  quite  as  important  and  inalienable 
as  then-  own  personalities  and  possessions.  Indeed  hi  defense 
of  the  integrity  of  the  group  life,  as  in  the  case,  for  example, 
of  national  honor,  the  individual  life  and  possession  may  come 
to  be  reckoned  as  naught.  Man's  gregariousness  and  his 
instinctive  sympathy  with  his  own  kind  make  it  easy  for  the 
individual  to  identify  his  own  life  with  that  of  the  group. 
What  threatens  or  endangers  the  group  will  in  consequence 
arouse  hi  him  the  same  emotions  as  are  aroused  by  threats  or 
dangers  that  concern  his  own  personality.  An  insult  to  the 
flag  may  send  a  thrill  of  danger  through  the  millions  who 
read  about  it,  just  as  would  an  insult  to  themselves  or  their 
families. 

Group  feeling  may  exist  on  various  levels.  It  may  be 
nothing  more  momentous  than  local  pride,  having  the  tallest 
tower,  the  finest  amusement  park,  the  best  baseball  team,  or 
being  the  "sixth  largest  city."  It  may  be  a  belligerent  im- 
perialism, a  "desire  for  a  place  in  the  sun."  It  may  be  a 
desire  for  independence  and  an  autonomous  group  life,  mani- 
fested so  strikingly  recently  by  such  small  nationalities  as 


182  HUMAN  TRAITS 

Poland  and  Czecho-Slovakia  and  influential  in  keeping  Swit- 
zerland alive  as  a  nationality  through  hundreds  of  years, 
though  surrounded  by  powerful  neighbors.1  While  a  group 
does  not  exist  save  as  an  abstraction,  looked  at  as  a  whole  it 
may  exhibit  the  same  outstanding  traits,  or  the  same  types 
of  selfhood  as  an  individual.  It  may  be  fiercely  belligerent 
and  dogmatic;  it  may,  like  literary  exponents  of  the  German 
ideal,  desire  to  spread  its  own  conception  of  Kultur  through- 
out the  world.2  It  may  be  insistent  on  its  own  position,  or 
its  own  possessions  or  its  own  glory.  It  may  be  fanatic  in 
aggrandizement.  It  may  be  interested  in  the  welfare  of  other 
groups,  as  in  the  case  of  large  nationalities  championing  and 
protecting  the  causes  of  small  or  oppressed  ones,  such  an  ideal 
as  was  expressed,  for  example,  by  President  Wilson  in  his 
address  to  Congress  on  the  entrance  of  America  into  the 
Great  War: 

. . .  We  shall  fight  for  the  things  which  we  have  always  carried 
nearest  our  hearts  —  for  democracy,  for  the  right  of  those  who  sub- 
mit to  authority  to  have  a  voice  in  their  own  governments,  for  the 
rights  and  liberties  of  small  nations,  for  a  universal  dominion  of  right 
by  such  a  concert  of  free  peoples  as  shall  bring  peace  and  safety  to  all 
nations  and  make  the  world  itself  at  last  free.8 

The  selfhood  displayed  by  various  groups  varies  with  the 
degree  and  integration  of  the  individual  within  the  group. 
In  extreme  cases,  such  as  that  of  Germany  under  the  imperial 
regime,  the  group  individuality  may  completely  overshadow 
and  engulf  that  of  the  individual.  This  ideal  was  not  infre- 
quently expressed  by  German  political  writers: 

1  Group  feeling  may  be  displayed  under  the  most  disadvantageous  condi- 
tions, as  in  the  strong  sentiment  for  nationalism  current  among  the  Jews, 
even  through  all  the  centuries  of  dispersion. 

1  Thorstein  Veblen  has  pointed  out  how  the  "common  man"  comes  to 
identify  his  interest  with  that  of  the  group:  "The  common  man  who  so  lends 
himself  to  the  aggressive  enhancement  of  the  national  Culture  and  its  pres- 
tige has  nothing  of  a  material  kind  to  gain  from  the  increase  of  renown  that 
comes  to  his  sovereign,  his  language,  his  countrymen's  art  or  science,  his  die- 
tary, or  his  God.  There  are  no  sordid  motives  in  all  this.  These  spiritual 
assets  of  self-complacency  are  indeed  to  be  rated  as  grounds  of  high-minded 
patriotism  without  afterthought."  (The  Nature  of  Peace,  p.  66.) 

*  Woodrow  Wilson:  Address  to  Congress,  April  2,  1917. 


THE  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  SELF        183 

To  us  the  state  is  the  most  indispensable  as  well  as  highest  requi- 
site of  our  earthly  existence.  ...  All  individualistic  endeavor  must 
be  unreservedly  subordinated  to  this  lofty  claim.  .  .  .  The  state 
eventually  is  of  infinitely  more  value  than  the  sum  of  the  individuals 
within  its  jurisdiction.  This  conception  of  the  state  which  is  as 
much  a  part  of  our  life  as  the  blood  in  our  veins,  is  nowhere  to  be 
found  in  the  English  constitution,  and  is  quite  foreign  to  English 
thought,  and  to  that  of  America  as  well.1 

While  custom-bound  and  feudal  regimes  may  emphasize 
the  tendency  to  suppress  development  of  individuality,  and 
insist  on  regimentation  in  thought  and  action  —  an  ideal 
proclaimed  with  increasing  generality  in  Germany  from  Hegel 
down  2  there  may  be  on  the  part  of  both  individuals  and 
groups  the  tendency  to  promote  individuality  as  itself  a  social 
good.  In  such  a  case  the  social  structure  and  educational 
systems  and  methods  will  be  designed  to  promote  individual- 
ity rather  than  to  suppress  it.  Individual  variations,  if  it  be 
generally  recognized  that  they  are  the  only  source  of  progress, 
will  be  utilized  and  cultivated  instead  of  suppressed.8 

Throughout  the  nineteenth  century  (indeed  throughout 
the  history  of  political  theory),  the  pendulum  swung  beween 
individualism  and  complete  socialization.  Spencer  long  ago 
proclaimed  the  dominance  of  the  individual;  T.  H.  Green, 
following  the  German  philosophers,  the  dominance  of  the 
state.  Like  the  contrast  between  egoism  and  altruism,  an 
emphasis  on  either  side  is  bound  to  be  artificial.  The  indi- 
vidual can  only  be  a  self  in  a  social  order;  the  individual  is 
only  an  individual  in  contrast  with  others.  It  is  doubtful,  for 
example,  whether  a  man  living  all  his  life  alone  on  a  desert 
island  would  discover  any  individuality  at  all.  A  man's 
character  is  displayed  in  action,  and  his  actions  are  always, 
or  nearly  always,  performed  with  reference  to  other  people. 
And  a  man's  best  self -realization  cannot  be  achieved  save  in 

1  Eduard  Meyer:  England,  Its  Political  Organization  and  Development  and 
the  War  Against  Germany  (English  translation),  pp.  30-31. 
1  See  Dewey :  German  Philosophy  and  Politics. 
1  Individuality  is  the  theme  of  Montessori  kindergarten  methods. 


184  HUMAN  TRAITS 

congenial  social  order.  A  man  will  not  readily  grow  into  a 
saint  among  a  society  of  sinners,  and  unless  the  social  order 
provides  opportunities  for  the  highest  type  of  life,  it  will  exist 
only  in  a  very  fortunate  and  favored  few.  One  of  the  charges 
that  has  been  laid  against  democracy  is  that  it  fails  to  en- 
courage the  highest  types  of  scientific  and  artistic  interests, 
that  it  is  the  gospel  of  the  mediocre.1 

It  is  too  often  forgotten,  on  the  other  hand,  by  those  who 
emphasize  the  importance  of  society,  that  society  is,  after  all, 
nothing  more  than  an  aggregate  of  selves.  The  "state,"  the 
"social  order"  is  nothing  but  the  individuals  who  make  it  up, 
and  their  relations  to  each  other. 

The  group  exists,  after  all,  even  as  the  most  completely 
socialized  political  doctrines  insist,  for  the  realization  of  in- 
dividual selves,  for  freedom  of  opportunity  and  initiative.  It 
is  when  "individualism"  runs  rampant,  when  self-realization 
on  the  part  of  one  individual  interferes  with  self-realization 
on  the  part  of  all  others  that  individualism  becomes  a  menace. 
Individuality  is  itself  valuable,  in  the  first  place,  because  as 
Mill  pointed  out  in  his  essay  on  Liberty  earlier  quoted: 

What  has  made  the  European  family  an  improving  instead  of  a 
stationary  portion  of  mankind?  Not  any  superior  excellence  in 
them,  which,  when  it  exists,  exists  as  the  effect,  not  the  cause;  but 
their  remarkable  diversity  of  character  and  culture.  Individuals, 
classes,  nations,  have  been  extremely  unlike  one  another;  they  have 
struck  out  a  great  variety  of  paths,  each  leading  to  something  valu- 
able; and  although  at  every  period  those  who  traveled  in  different 
paths  have  been  intolerant  of  one  another,  and  each  would  have 
thought  it  an  excellent  thing  if  all  the  rest  could  have  been  compelled 
to  travel  his  road,  their  attempts  to  thwart  each  other's  development 
have  rarely  had  any  permanent  success,  and  each  has  endured  in 
time  to  receive  the  good  which  the  others  have  offered.* 

Apart  from  the  variations  in  group  customs  and  traditions, 
and  their  progressive  application  to  changing  circumstances 

1  This  is  the  essence  of  the  aristocratic  position,  that  a  choice  life  lived  by  a 
few  is  better  than  a  vulgar  one  shared  by  the  many. 
1  Mill:  Essay  on  Liberty,  chap.  in. 


THE  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  SELF       185 

which  individuality  makes  possible,  it  cannot  be  too  strongly 
emphasized  that  society  is  the  name  for  the  process  by  which 
individuals  live  together.  It  is  the  individuals  who  are  the 
realities  and  the  happiness  of  individuals  which  is  the  aim  of 
social  organization.  Such  happiness  is  only  attainable  when 
individuals  are  allowed  to  make  the  most  of  their  native  ca- 
pacities and  individual  interests.  The  social  group  as  a  group 
will  be  more  interesting,  colorful,  and  various  when  every 
experimentation  and  variety  of  life  are  encouraged  and  pro- 
moted. And  the  individuals  in  such  a  society  will  be  person- 
alities, not  the  mere  mechanisms  of  a  regimented  routine. 


CHAPTER  IX 
INDIVIDUAL  DIFFERENCES 

The  meaning  of  individual  differences.  The  major  part  of 
this  volume  has  been  devoted  to  a  consideration  of  those 
traits,  interests,  and  capacities  which  all  individuals  share,  and 
which  may  in  general  be  described  as  the  "original  nature  of 
man."  These  distinctive  inborn  tendencies  were  treated,  for 
purposes  of  analysis,  in  the  most  general  terms,  and,  on  the 
whole,  as  if  they  appeared  in  the  same  strength  and  variety  hi 
all  individuals.  When  we  thus  stand  off  and  abstract  those 
characteristics  which  appear  universally  in  all  individuals, 
human  nature  appears  constant.  But  there  are  marked  vari- 
ations in  the  specific  content  of  human  nature  with  which 
each  individual  is  at  birth  endowed.  Put  in  another  way,  one 
might  say  that  to  be  a  human  being  means  to  be  by  nature 
pugnacious,  curious,  subject  to  fatigue,  responsive  to  praise 
and  blame,  etc.,  and  susceptible  to  training  in  all  these  re- 
spects. By  virtue  of  the  fact  that  we  are  all  members  of  the 
human  race,  we  have  common  characteristics;  by  virtue  that 
we  are  individuals,  we  all  display  specific  variations  hi  specific 
human  capacities.  There  is,  save  abstractly,  no  such  thing  as 
a  standard  human  being.  We  may  intellectually  set  up  a 
norm  or  standard,  but  it  will  be  a  norm  or  standard  from 
which  every  individual  is  bound  to  vary. 

The  fact  that  individuals  do  differ,  and  in  specific  and  de- 
finable respects,  has  most  serious  consequences  for  social  life. 
It  means,  briefly,  that  while  general  inferences  may  be  drawn 
from  wide  and  accurate  observations  of  the  workings  of  hu- 
man nature,  these  inferences  remain  general  and  tentative, 
and  if  taken  as  rigid  rules  are  sure  to  be  misleading.  Theories 
of  education  and  social  reform  certainly  gain  from  the  general 
laws  that  can  be  formulated  about  original  human  traits, 


INDIVIDUAL  DIFFERENCES  187 

fatigue,  memory,  learning  capacity,  and  the  like.  But  they 
must,  if  they  are  to  be  applicable,  take  account  also,  in  a  pre- 
cise and  systematic  way,  of  the  variety  of  men's  interests  and 
capacities.  To  this  fact  of  variety  in  the  original  nature  of 
different  men  social  institutions  and  educational  methods 
must  be  adapted.  Arbitrary  rules  that  apply  to  human  na- 
ture in  general  do  not  apply  to  the  specific  cases  and  specific 
types  of  talent  and  desires.  Educational  and  social  organiza- 
tions can  mould  these,  but  the  result  of  these  environmental 
influences  will  vary  with  individual  differences  in  original 
capacities.  We  can  waste  an  enormous  amount  of  time  and 
energy  trying  to  train  a  person  without  mechanical  or  mathe- 
matical gifts  to  be  an  engineer.  We  not  only  save  energy  and 
time,  but  promote  happiness,  if  we  can  train  individuals  so 
that  their  specific  gifts  will  be  capitalized  at  one  hundred  per 
cent.  They  will  be  at  once  more  useful  to  society  and  more 
content  with  themselves,  when  they  are  using  to  the  full  their 
own  capacities.  They  will  at  once  be  unproductive  and  un- 
happy when  they  find  themselves  hi  activities  or  social  situa- 
tions where  their  genuine  talents  are  given  no  opportunity 
and  where  their  defects  put  them  at  a  conspicuous  handicap. 
Individuals  differ,  it  must  further  be  noted,  not  only  in 
specific  traits,  but  in  that  complex  of  traits  which  is  commonly 
called  "intelligence."  In  the  broadest  terms,  we  mean  by  an 
individual's  intelligence  his  competence  and  facility  in  dealing 
with  his  environment,  physical,  social,  and  intellectual.  This 
competence  and  facility,  in  so  far  as  it  is  a  native  endowment, 
consists  of  a  number  of  traits  present  in  a  more  or  less  high 
degree,  traits,  for  example,  such  as  curiosity,  flexibility  of  na- 
tive and  acquired  reactions,  sociability,  sympathy,  and  the 
like.  In  a  sense  an  individual  possesses  not  a  single  intelli- 
gence, but  many,  as  many  as  there  are  types  of  activity  in 
which  he  engages.  But  one  may  classify  intelligence  under 
three  heads,  as  does  Thorndike:1  mechanical  intelligence,  in- 
volved in  dealing  with  things;  social  intelligence,  involved  in 

1  "  Measuring  Intelligence,"  Harper's  Magazine,  March,  1920. 


188  HUMAN  TRAITS 

dealing  with  other  persons;  and  abstract  intelligence,  in- 
volved in  dealing  with  the  relations  between  ideas.  Each  of 
these  types  of  intelligence  involves  the  presence  in  a  high  de- 
gree of  a  group  of  different  traits.  Thus,  in  social  intelligence, 
a  high  degree  of  sympathy,  sensitivity  to  praise  and  blame, 
leadership,  and  the  like,  are  more  requisite  than  they  are  for 
intelligent  behavior  in  the  realm  of  mechanical  operations  or 
of  mathematical  theory.  A  person  may  be  highly  intelligent 
in  one  of  these  three  spheres  and  mentally  helpless  in  the 
others.  Thus,  a  brilliant  philosopher  may  be  nonplused  by  a 
stalled  motor;  a  successful  executive  may  be  a  babe  in  the 
realm  of  abstract  ideas.  But  what  we  rate  as  a  person's  gen- 
eral intelligence  is  a  kind  of  average  struck  between  his  vari- 
ous competences,  an  estimate  of  his  general  ability  to  control 
himself  in  the  miscellaneous  variety  of  situations  of  which 
his  experience  consists. 

There  have  been  a  number  of  tests  devised  for  the  purpose 
of  estimating  an  individual's  general  intelligence.1  On  a 
rating  scale  such  as  is  used  in  these  examinations  most 
individuals  will  come  up  to  a  certain  standard  that  may  be 
called  average  or  normal.  There  will  be  a  certain  number  so 
far  below  the  normal  rating  in  a  complex  of  traits  that  go  to 
produce  intelligent  (competent  and  facile)  behavior  that  they 
will  have  to  be  classed  as  subnormal,  ranging  from  feeble- 
mindedness to  idiocy.  A  certain  number  will  be  found  so 
extraordinarily  gifted  in  general  traits  and  in  specific  abili- 
ties—  in  given  subject-matters,  as,  for  example,  in  mathe- 
matics and  music  —  that  they  will  be  marked  out  as  geniuses. 
Following  the  laws  of  probability,  the  greater  the  inferiority 
or  superiority,  the  more  exceptional  it  will  be. 

1  These,  in  large  part,  deal  with  words  and  ideas  and  are,  therefore, 
weighted  in  favor  of  abstract  intelligence,  and  put  at  a  discount  individuals 
whose  experience  and  whose  intelligence  are  predominantly  social  or  mechan- 
ical in  character.  Some  of  the  tests  are  fairly  adequate  for  mechanical  intelli- 
gence, but  no  good  tests  have  been  devised  for  social  intelligence.  These 
tests,  however,  as  used  in  the  army  and  for  appraising  college  entrants,  as  at 
Columbia  University,  have  been  demonstrated  to  be  fairly  good  indicea  of 
general  intelligence. 


INDIVIDUAL  DIFFERENCES  189 

Individual  differences  are,  therefore,  seen  to  be  not  simply 
differences  with  respect  to  given  mental  traits,  but  differences 
with  respect  to  general  mental  capacity.  Experimental  in- 
vestigation points  to  a  graded  difference  in  mental  capacity, 
ranging  from  idiocy  to  genius,  the  largest  group  being  normal 
or  average,  the  size  of  the  group  diminishing  with  further 
deviation  from  the  average  in  either  direction. 

Certain  important  correlations,  furthermore,  have  been 
found  between  the  level  of  intelligence  and  the  level  of  charac- 
ter. The  great  in  mind,  it  may  be  said  briefly,  are  also  great 
in  spirit.  "General  moral  defect  commonly  involves  intellec- 
tual inferiority.  Woods  and  Pearson  find  the  correlation  be- 
tween intellect  and  character  to  be  about  .5.  ...  General 
moral  defect  is  due  in  part  to  a  generally  inferior  nervous 
organization."  l 

One  other  important  correlation  must  be  noted.  While 
gifts  and  capacities  are  specific,  superiority  in  a  given  trait 
commonly  involves  superiority  in  most  others.  Exceptional 
talent  in  one  direction  in  most  cases  involves  exceptionality 
in  many  other  respects.  While  talents  are  not  indiscrimi- 
nately transferable  from  one  field  to  another,  the  same  com- 
plex of  traits  which  makes  a  person  stand  out  preeminently  in 
a  given  field,  say  law,  would  make  him  stand  out  in  any  one  of 
half  a  dozen  different  fields  into  which  he  might  have  gone. 
There  seems  to  be  no  evidence  that  extraordinary  capacity  in 
one  direction  is  balanced  by  extraordinary  incapacity  and 
stupidity  in  others.  The  fact  that  individuals  differ  not  only 
in  specific  traits  but  in  general  mental  capacity  has,  also,  cer- 
tain obvious  practical  consequences.  It  means  that  there  are 
present  in  society,  in  the  light  of  recent  tests  in  the  army,  an 
unexpectedly  large  number  of  individuals  below  the  level  of 
normal  intelligence.  One  in  five  hundred,  Thorndike  esti- 
mates, is  the  "frequency  of  intellectual  ability  so  defective  as 
to  disturb  the  home,  resist  school  influence,  and  excite  popu- 
lar derision."  These  are  clearly  liabilities  in  the  social  order. 

1  Thorndike:  Educational  Psychology  (1910),  p.  224. 


190  HUMAN  TRAITS 

On  the  other  hand,  there  is  a  large  number  above  the  level  of 
average  intelligence.  The  importance  of  this  group  for  hu- 
man progress  can  hardly  be  overestimated.  As  we  have  seen 
in  other  connections,  progress  is  contingent  upon  variation 
from  the  "normal"  or  the  accustomed,  and  such  variation 
from  the  normal  is  initiated  in  the  majority  of  cases  by  mem- 
bers of  this  comparatively  small  super-normal  group.  If 
civilization  is  to  advance  it  must  capitalize  its  intelligence; 
that  is,  educate  up  to  the  highest  point  of  native  ability.  But 
in  any  case,  its  chief  guarantee  of  progress  lies  in  the  com- 
paratively small  group  in  whom  native  ability  is  exception- 
ally high.  For  it  is  among  this  group  that  original  thinking, 
invention,  and  discovery  almost  exclusively  occur. 

Causes  of  individual  differences.  Among  the  chief  causes 
of  individual  differences  may,  in  general,  be  set  down  the  fol- 
lowing: (1)  Sex,  (2)  Race,  (3)  Near  Ancestry  or  Family, 
(4)  Environment.  The  particular  fund  of  human  nature 
which  an  individual  displays,  that  is,  his  specific  native  en- 
dowments, as  they  appear  in  practice,  will  be  a  resultant  of 
these  various  causes.  In  the  study  of  each  of  these  charac- 
teristics, we  should  be  able  ideally  to  eliminate  all  the  others 
and  to  consider  them  each  in  isolation. 

The  influence  of  sex.  In  the  case  of  sex,  for  example,  we 
should  not  confuse  individual  differences  due  to  the  fact  of  sex 
with  individual  differences  due  to  divergent  training  given  to 
each  of  the  sexes.  In  scientific  experiments  to  determine  sex 
differences  in  mental  traits,  there  have  been  careful  attempts 
to  eliminate  everything  but  the  factor  of  sex  itself.  Thus  in 
Karl  Pearson's  studies  of  fifty  twin  brothers  and  sisters,  the 
factors  of  ancestry  and  difference  of  training  and  age  were 
practically  eliminated. 

In  so  far  as  allowance  can  be  made  for  other  contributing 
factors,  studies  of  individual  differences  due  to  sex  have  re- 
vealed, roughly  speaking,  the  following  results.  There  have 
been,  in  the  field  of  sensory  discrimination  and  accuracy  of 
motor  response,  slight  —  and  negligible  —  differences  of  re- 


INDIVIDUAL  DIFFERENCES  191 

sponses  made  by  male  and  female.  The  subjects  stated  were, 
in  most  cases,  selected  so  far  as  possible  from  the  same  social 
strata,  social  and  intellectual  interest,  and  background.1 

Thorndike  reports  the  general  results  of  such  tests  as  fol- 
lows: 

The  percentages  of  males  reaching  or  exceeding  the  median  ability 
of  females  in  such  traits  as  have  been  subjected  to  exact  investigation 
are  roughly  as  follows: 

In  speed  of  naming  colors  and  sorting  cards  by  color  and 

discriminating  colors  as  in  a  test  for  color  blindness      .  24 

In  finding  and  checking  small  visual  details  such  as  letters  33 

In  spelling 33 

In  school  "marks"  in  Kngliah 35 

In  school  "marks"  in  foreign  languages 40 

In  memorizing  for  immediate  recall 42 

In  lowness  of  sensory  thresholds 43 

In  retentiveness 47 

In  tests  of  speed  and  accuracy  of  association      ....  48 

In  tests  of  general  information .50 

In  school  "marks"  in  mathematics 50 

In  school  ''marks"  (total  average) 50 

In  tests  of  discrimination  (other  than  for  color)       ...  51 

In  range  of  sensitivity ....52 

In  school  "marks"  in  history ....55 

In  tests  of  ingenuity 63 

In  accuracy  of  arm  movements 66 

In  school  "  marks  "  in  physics  and  chemistry     ....  68 

In  reaction  time 70 

In  speed  of  finger  and  arm  movement 71 

The  most  important  characteristic  of  these  differences  is  their  1 
small  amount.  The  individual  differences  within  one  sex  so  enor- 
mously outweigh  the  differences  between  the  sexes  in  these  intel- 
lectual and  semi-intellectual  traits  that  for  practical  purposes  the  sex 
difference  may  be  disregarded.  So  far  as  ability  goes,  there  could 
hardly  be  a  stupider  way  to  get  two  groups  alike  within  each  group 
but  differing  between  the  groups  than  to  take  the  two  sexes.  As  is 
well  known,  the  experiments  of  the  past  generation  in  educating  wo- 
men have  shown  their  equal  competence  in  school  work  of  elementary, 
secondary,  and  collegiate  grade.  The  present  generation's  experi- 
ence is  showing  the  same  fact  for  professional  education  and  business 

1  As,  for  example,  the  members  of  the  graduating  and  junior  classes  of  the 
co-educational  college  at  the  University  of  Chicago,  studied  by  Dr.  Thompson. 


192  HUMAN  TRAITS 

service.  The  psychologists'  measurements  lead  to  the  conclusion 
that  this  equality  of  achievement  comes  from  an  equality  of  natural 
gifts,  not  from  an  overstraining  of  the  lesser  talents  of  women.1 

That  is,  so  far  as  experiments  upon  objectively  measurable 
traits  have  been  conducted,  the  specific  differences  that  in- 
dividuals display  have  comparatively  nothing  to  do  with  the 
fact  that  an  individual  happens  to  be  a  man  or  a  woman. 
These  experiments  have  been  conducted  with  boys  and  girls 
as  young  as  seven,  and  with  men  and  women  ranging  up  to  the 
age  of  twenty-five.2 

These  experiments  have  been  conducted  to  test  sensory 
discrimination,  precision  of  motor  response  and  some  of  the 
simpler  types  of  judgment,  such  as  those  involved  in  the  solu- 
tion of  simple  puzzles  with  blocks,  matches,  etc.  The  fact 
of  the  negligibility  of  sex  difference  with  regard  to  certain 
minor  measurable  traits  has  been  adequately  demonstrated 
by  a  wide  variety  of  experiments.  The  fact  of  sex  equality  or 
mental  capacity  has  been  less  accurately  but  f airly  universally 
noted  by  popular  consensus  of  observation  and  opinion  of  the 
work  of  women  in  the  various  trades  and  professions.  There 
are  differences  between  men  and  women  in  physical  strength 
and  in  consequent  susceptibility  to  fatigue.  These  are  im- 
portant considerations  in  qualifying  the  amount  of  work  a 
woman  can  do  as  compared  with  that  of  a  man,  and  have 
justly  resulted  in  the  regulation  of  hours  for  women,  as  a 
special  class.  But  there  do  not  seem  to  be,  on  the  average, 
significant  original  differences  in  mental  capacity.8 

There  do  exist,  as  a  matter  of  practical  fact,  some  of  the 
special  attributes  commonly  ascribed  to  the  masculine  and 
feminine  mental  life,  but  it  is  generally  agreed  by  investigators 
that  these  are  to  be  accounted  for  by  the  different  environ- 

1  Thorndike:  Educational  Psychology,  briefer  course,  pp.  345-46. 

*  There  seems,  as  might  be  expected  to  be,  a  slightly  higher  differentiation 
between  the  two  sexes  after  adolescence  than  before. 

»  On  this  subject  there  has  been  collected  a  large  amount  of  accurate  ex- 
perimental data.  See  Goldmark:  Fatigue  and  Efficiency,  part  n,  pp.  1-22. 
These  refer  to  physiological  differences. 


INDIVIDUAL  DIFFERENCES  193 

ment  and  standards  socially  established  for  men  and  for 
women.  There  are  radical  and  subtle  differences  in  training 
to  which  boys  and  girls  are  subjected  from  early  childhood. 
There  are  deeply  fixed  traditions  as  to  the  standards  of  action, 
feeling,  and  demeanor  to  which  boys  and  girls  are  respectively 
trained  and  to  which  they  are  expected  to  conform.  If  a  boy 
should  not  live  up  to  this  training  and  expectation,  he  may  be 
marked  out  as  "effeminate."  If  a  girl  does  not  conform,  she 
is  defined  as  a  "hoyden"  or  a  "tomboy." 

These  social  distinctions,  which  are  emphasized  even  in  the 
behavior  of  young  boys  and  young  girls,  grow  more  pro- 
nounced as  individuals  grow  older.  One  need  hardly  call  at- 
tention to  actions  regarded  as  perfectly  legitimate  for  men 
which  provoke  disapproval  if  practiced  by  women.  Rigid 
training  in  these  different  codes  of  behavior  may  cause  ac- 
quired characteristics  to  seem  inborn.  But  whether  these 
general  features  commonly  held  to  distinguish  the  mental  life 
of  man  or  woman  are  or  are  not  intrinsic  and  original,  they 
have  been  marked  out  by  certain  investigators  as  socially 
fundamental.  Thus  Heymans  and  Wiersma,  two  German 
investigators,  set  down  as  the  differentia  of  feminine  mental 
life  (1)  greater  activity,  (2)  greater  emotionality,  (3)  greater 
unselfishness  of  the  female.1 

There  are  some  general  differences  noted  by  both  layman 
and  psychologist,  which,  though  not 'subject  to  quantitative 
determination,  yet  seem  to  differentiate  somewhat  definitely 
between  feminine  and  masculine  mental  activity.  These 
may  be  set  down  in  general  as  occurring  in  the  field  of  emo- 
tional susceptibility.  Thorndike  traces  them  back  to  the 
varying  intensity  of  two  human  traits  earlier  discussed:  the 
fighting  instinct,  relatively  much  stronger  in  the  male,  and 
the  nursing  or  mothering  instinct,  much  stronger  in  the  fe- 
male. With  this  fact  are  associated  important  differences  in 
the  conduct  of  men  and  women  in  social  relations.  The  ma- 
ternal instinct  is  held  by  some  writers,  for  instance,  to  be  in 

>  Bee  Tborndike's  Educational  Psychology  (1910),  p.  130. 


194  HUMAN  TRAITS 

large  measure  the  basis  of  altruism,  and  is  closely  associated 
with  sensitivity  to  the  needs  and  desires  of  others.  Thorn- 
dike  writes: 

It  has  been  common  to  talk  of  women's  dependence.  This  is,  I  am 
sure,  only  an  awkward  name  for  less  resentment  at  mastery.  The 
actual  nursing  of  the  young  seems  likewise  to  involve  equally  un- 
reasoning tendencies  to  pet,  coddle,  and  "do  for"  others.  The 
existence  of  these  two  instincts  has  been  long  recognized  by  litera- 
ture and  common  knowledge,  but  their  importance  in  causing  differ- 
ences in  the  general  activities  of  the  two  sexes  has  not.  The  fighting 
instinct  is  in  fact  the  cause  of  a  very  large  amount  of  the  world's 
intellectual  endeavor.  The  financier  does  not  think  merely  for 
money,  nor  the  scientist  for  truth,  nor  the  theologian  to  save  souls. 
Their  intellectual  efforts  are  aimed  in  great  measure  to  outdo  the 
other  man,  to  subdue  nature,  to  conquer  assent.  The  maternal 
instinct  in  its  turn  is  the  chief  source  of  woman's  superiorities  in  the 
moral  life.  The  virtues  in  which  she  excels  are  not  so  much  due  to 
either  any  general  moral  superiority  or  any  set  of  special  moral  tal- 
ents as  to  her  original  impulses  to  relieve,  comfort,  and  console.1 

Ordinary  observation  reveals,  as  literature  has  in  general 
recorded,  what  Havelock  Ellis  has  called  the  "greater  affecta- 
bility of  the  female  mind."  There  is  evidenced  in  many 
women  a  singular  and  immediate  responsiveness  to  other 
people's  emotions,  a  quick  intuition,  a  precise  though  non- 
logical  discrimination,  which,  though  shared  to  some  extent 
by  all  individuals  gifted  with  sympathy  and  affection,  is  a 
peculiarly  feminine  quality.  Indeed  when  a  man  possesses 
it,  it  is  common  to  speak  of  him  as  possessing  "almost  a 
woman's  intuition."  Such  emotional  susceptibility  is  mani- 
fested in  the  higher  frequency  of  emotional  instability  and 
emotional  outbreaks  among  women  than  among  men,  and  the 
decreased  power  of  inhibition  which  women  have  over  in- 
stinctive and  emotional  reactions.  Further  than  this,  women 
more  than  men  may  be  said  to  qualify  their  judgments  of  per- 
sons and  situations  by  their  emotional  reactions  to  them. 

The  common  suspicion  that  in  general  women's  abilities 
are  less  than  those  of  men  has  seemed  to  gain  strength  from 

>  Thorndikc:  loc.  cit.,  pp.  48-49. 


INDIVIDUAL  DIFFERENCES  195 

the  greater  number  of  geniuses  and  eminent  persons  there 
have  been  among  men  than  among  women.  Professor  Cat- 
tell  writes  hi  this  connection: 

I  have  spoken  throughout  of  eminent  men  as  we  lack  in  English 
words  including  both  men  and  women,  but  as  a  matter  of  fact  women 
do  not  have  an  important  place  on  the  list.  They  have  in  all  thirty- 
two  representatives  in  the  thousand.  Of  these  eleven  are  hereditary 
sovereigns,  and  eight  are  eminent  through  misfortunes,  beauty,  or 
other  circumstances.  Belles-lettres  and  fiction  —  the  only  depart- 
ment in  which  woman  has  accomplished  much  —  give  ten  names  as 
compared  with  seventy-two  men.  Sappho  and  Joan  d'Arc  are  the 
only  other  women  on  the  list.  It  is  noticeable  that  with  the  excep- 
tion of  Sappho  —  a  name  associated  with  certain  fine  fragments  — 
women  have  not  excelled  in  poetry  or  art.  Yet  these  are  the  depart- 
ments least  dependent  on  environment,  and  at  the  same  time  those 
in  which  the  environment  has  been  perhaps  as  favorable  to  women 
as  to  men.  Women  depart  less  from  the  normal  than  men  —  a  fact 
that  usually  holds  for  the  female  throughout  the  animal  series;  in 
many  closely  related  species  only  the  male  can  be  readily  dis- 
tinguished.1 

In  the  facts  of  higher  variability  among  males,  and  the 
hitherto  restricted  social  opportunities  provided  for  women 
are  to  be  found  the  chief  reasons  for  the  comparatively  high 
achievement  of  the  male  sex  as  compared  with  the  female. 
But  on  the  average  the  difference  between  the  two  sexes  with 
respect  to  mental  capacity  is  slight. 

The  influence  of  race.  A  second  factor  in  determining  in- 
dividual differences  in  mental  traits  is  race.  There  are  cer- 
tain popular  presuppositions  as  to  the  inherent  differences  in 
the  mental  activity  of  different  races.  The  Irishman's  wit, 
the  negro's  joyousness,  the  emotionality  of  the  Latin  races, 
the  stolidity  of  the  Chinese,  are  all  supposed  to  be  funda- 
mental. And  in  a  sense  they  are.  That  is,  in  the  life  and 
culture  of  these  groups,  such  traits  may  stand  out  distinc- 
tively. But  most  psychologists  and  anthropologists  question 
seriously  whether  these  traits  are  to  be  traced  to  radical  differ- 

1  Cattell: "  A  Statistical  Study  of  Eminent  Men,"  Popular  Science  Monthly, 
vol.  LXII,  pp.  375-77. 


196  HUMAN  TRAITS 

ences  in  racial  inheritance.  For  the  most  part  they  seem 
rather  to  be  the  result  of  radical  differences  in  environment. 
"Many  of  the  mental  similarities  of  an  Indian  to  Indians  and 
of  his  differences  from  Anglo-Saxons  disappear,  if  he  happens 
to  be  adopted  and  brought  up  as  an  Anglo-Saxon."  l 

There  have  been  various  experimental  studies  made  to 
determine  how  much  divergences  hi  the  mental  activity  of 
different  races  are  determined  by  differences  in  racial  in- 
heritance. Such  experiments  have  been  conducted  chiefly 
upon  very  simple  traits  and  capacities.  The  accuracy  of 
sensory  response  among  different  races  has,  for  example,  been 
examined.  There  have  proved  to  be,  in  regard  to  these,  slight 
differences  in  the  effectiveness  and  accuracy  of  response. 
There  are  racial  differences  hi  hearing,  as  tested  by  the  ticking 
of  a  watch  or  clock  artificially  made.  In  this  test,  Papuans, 
to  take  an  instance,  were  inferior  to  Europeans.  The  sense 
of  touch  has  been  similarly  tested,  and  comparatively  negligi- 
ble differences  have  been  found.  In  regard  to  the  five  senses, 
their  efficiency  seems  to  be  about  equal  in  all  the  races  of  man- 
kind. The  proverbial  keenness  of  vision  of  the  Indian,  for 
example,  is  found  to  be  due  to  a  superior  training  in  its  use,  a 
training  made  imperative  by  the  conditions  of  Indian  life.  In 
reaction  time  tests — that  is,  tests  in  the  speed  of  simple  men- 
tal and  motor  performances — the  time  consumed  in  response 
has  been  found  to  be  about  the  same  for  all  races  tested.  The 
results  have  been  similar  with  regard  to  certain  simple  proc- 
esses of  judgment  or  inference: 

There  are  a  number  of  illusions  and  constant  errors  of  judgment 
which  are  well  known  in  the  psychological  laboratory,  and  which 
seem  to  depend,  not  on  peculiarities  of  the  sense  organs,  but  on 
quirks  and  twists  in  the  process  of  judgment.  A  few  of  these  have 
been  made  the  matter  of  comparative  tests,  with  the  result  that 
peoples  of  widely  different  cultures  are  subject  to  the  same  errors, 
and  in  about  the  same  degree.  There  is  an  illusion  which  occurs 
when  an  object,  which  looks  heavier  than  it  is,  is  lifted  by  the  hand; 
it  then  feels,  not  only  lighter  than  it  looks,  but  even  lighter  than  it 
1  Thorndike:  loc.  cii.,  p.  62. 


INDIVIDUAL  DIFFERENCES  197 

really  is.  The  contrast  between  the  look  and  the  feel  of  the  thing 
plays  havoc  with  the  judgment.  Women  are,  on  the  average,  more 
subject  to  this  illusion  than  men.  The  amount  of  this  illusion  has 
been  measured  in  several  peoples,  and  found  to  be,  with  one  or  two 
exceptions,  about  the  same  in  all.  Certain  visual  illusions,  in  which 
the  apparent  length  or  direction  of  a  line  is  greatly  altered  by  the 
neighborhood  of  other  lines,  have  similarly  been  found  present  in  all 
races  tested,  and  to  about  the  same  degree.  As  far  as  they  go,  these 
results  tend  to  show  that  simple  sorts  of  judgment,  being  subject 
to  the  same  disturbances,  proceed  in  the  same  manner  among  various 
peoples;  so  that  the  similarity  of  the  races  in  mental  processes  ex- 
tends at  least  one  step  beyond  sensation.1 

Professor  Woodworth  also  points  out  that  these  simple 
tests  are  not  adequate  to  measure  general  intelligence. 

A  good  test  for  intelligence  would  be  much  appreciated  by  the 
comparative  psychologist,  since,  in  spite  of  equal  standing  in  such 
rudimentary  matters  as  the  senses  and  bodily  movement,  attention 
and  the  simpler  sorts  of  judgment,  it  might  still  be  that  great  differ- 
ences in  mental  efficiency  existed  between  different  groups  of  men. 
Probably  no  single  test  could  do  justice  to  so  complex  a  trait  as 
intelligence.  Two  important  features  of  intelligent  action  are  quick- 
ness in  seizing  the  key  to  a  novel  situation,  and  firmness  in  limiting 
activity  to  the  right  direction,  and  suppressing  acts  which  are  obvi- 
ously useless  for  the  purpose  in  hand.  A  simple  test  which  calls  for 
these  qualities  is  the  so-called  "form  test."  There  are  a  number  of 
blocks  of  different  shapes,  and  a  board  with  holes  to  match  the 
blocks.  The  blocks  and  board  are  placed  before  a  person,  and  he  is 
told  to  put  the  blocks  in  the  holes  in  the  shortest  possible  time.  The 
key  to  the  situation  is  here  the  matching  of  blocks  and  holes  by  their 
shape;  and  the  part  of  intelligence  is  to  hold  firmly  to  this  obvious 
necessity,  wasting  no  time  in  trying  to  force  a  round  block  into  a 
square  hole.  The  demand  on  intelligence  certainly  seems  slight 
enough;  and  the  test  would  probably  not  differentiate  between  a 
Newton  and  you  or  me;  but  it  does  suffice  to  catch  the  feeble-minded, 
the  young  child,  or  the  chimpanzee,  as  any  of  these  is  likely  to  fail 
altogether,  or  at  least  to  waste  much  time  in  random  moves  and 
vain  efforts.  This  test  was  tried  on  representatives  of  several  races 
and  considerable  differences  appeared.  As  between  whites,  Indians, 
Eskimos,  Ainus,  Filipinos,  and  Singhalese,  the  average  differences 

1  Woodworth:  "  Racial  Differences  in  Mental  Trait*,"  Science,  New  Series, 
vol.  31,  pp.  179-81. 


198  HUMAN  TRAITS 

were  small,  and  much  overlapping  occurred.  As  between  these 
groups,  however,  and  the  Igorot  and  Negrito  from  the  Philippines 
and  a  few  reputed  Pygmies  from  the  Congo,  the  average  differences 
were  great,  and  the  overlapping  small.1 

Equality  among  races  in  the  various  traits  that  have  been 
measured  by  psychologists  does  not  imply  that  common 
observation  is  wrong  in  counting  one  race  as  intellectually 
superior  to  another.  There  have,  as  yet,  been  no  measure- 
ments of  such  general  features  of  social  life  as  energy,  self-re- 
liance, inventiveness,  and  the  like.  But  from  indications  of 
experiments  already  made,  these  so-called  (and  for  practical 
purposes  genuine)  intellectual  differences  between  the  indi- 
viduals of  different  races  must  be  attributed  to  differences  in 
environment.  Races  as  races  seem  to  be  equally  gifted. 

Professor  Boas  points  out  that  civilized  investigators  trav- 
eling among  savage  tribes  commit  one  serious  fallacy  in  in- 
sisting on  the  inferiority  of  these  primitive  peoples.  They 
are  said  to  be  irrational,  for  example,  when  they  are  quite 
logical  in  their  way  of  dealing  with  the  material  which  is  at 
their  disposal.  Without  any  scientific  information  available, 
for  example,  anthropomorphism,  or  the  tendency  to  interpret 
cosmic  phenomena  in  human  terms  is  quite  natural  and  rea- 
sonable. Again: 

The  difference  in  the  mode  of  thought  of  primitive  man  and  that 
of  civilized  man  seems  to  consist  largely  in  the  difference  of  character 
of  the  traditional  material  with  which  the  new  perception  associates 
itself.  The  instruction  given  to  the  child  of  primitive  man  is  not 
based  on  centuries  of  experimentation,  but  consists  of  the  crude  ex- 
perience of  generations.  When  a  new  experience  enters  the  mind  of 
primitive  man,  the  same  process  which  we  observe  among  civilized 
man  brings  about  an  entirely  different  series  of  associations,  and 
therefore  results  in  a  different  type  of  explanation.  A  sudden  explo- 
sion will  associate  itself  in  his  mind,  perhaps,  with  the  tales  he  has 
heard  in  regard  to  the  mythical  history  of  the  world,  and  conse- 
quently will  be  accompanied  by  superstitious  fear.  When  we  recog- 
nize that  neither  among  civilized  men  nor  among  primitive  men  the 
average  individual  carries  to  completion  the  attempt  at  causal 

»  Woodworth:  loc.  cit.,  pp.  171-86. 


INDIVIDUAL  DIFFERENCES  199 

explanation  of  phenomena,  but  carries  it  only  so  far  as  to  amalga- 
mate it  with  other  previously  known  facts,  we  recognize  that  the 
result  of  the  whole  process  depends  entirely  upon  the  character  of 
the  traditional  material.1 

This  may  be  illustrated  by  our  immediate  reactions  of  pleas- 
ure or  disgust  at  customs  or  ideas  that  provoke  directly  op- 
posite reactions  among  races  reared  in  another  tradition. 

Again  primitive  races  have  been  accused  of  kicking  self- 
control.  The  fact  is  that  they  exhibit  self-control  about 
matters  which  they  regard  as  important,  and  lack  of  it  in 
respect  to  matters  which  they  regard  as  trivial.  "When  an 
Eskimo  community  is  on  the  point  of  starvation,  and  their 
religious  proscriptions  forbid  them  to  make  use  of  the  seals 
that  are  basking  on  the  ice,  the  amount  of  self-control  of  the 
whole  community  which  restrains  them  from  killing  those 
seals  is  certainly  very  great."  2  The  case  is  similar  with  re- 
gard to  nearly  all  the  alleged  inferiorities  of  primitive  man,  his 
improvidence,  unreliability,  and  the  like.  In  nearly  every  in- 
stance, it  has  been  found  that  we  are  holding  him  to  account 
for  not  being  able  to  persist  in  courses  of  action  which  do  not 
seem  to  him,  with  his  training  and  education,  worth  persist- 
ing in,  and  for  not  conforming  to  standards  which,  given  his 
background,  are  meaningless. 

But  if  differences  in  racial  attainments  are  due  to  differ- 
ences in  environment,  it  might  be  said  that  this  itself  is  testi- 
mony to  the  superiority  of  the  race  that  has  the  more  complex 
and  exacting  environment.  This  is  not  by  any  means  clearly 
the  case.  The  " culture"  or  civilization  which  a  race  exhibits 
is  a  very  uncertain  index  of  its  gifts  or  its  capacities.  The 
culture  found  in  a  race  is,  it  may  be  said  without  exaggera- 
tion, largely  a  matter  of  accident  or  circumstance  rather  than 
of  heredity. 

Some  of  the  environmental  causes  for  differences  in  culture 
may  be  explicitly  noted.  Any  modern  culture  is  the  result 
of  interminglings  of  many  different  cross-streams  and  cross- 

>  Boas:  Mind  of  Primilir*  Man.  pp.  203-04.  «  Ibid.,  p.  108. 


borrowings.  Races  that  have  long  been  isolated  as,  for  ex- 
ample, the  African  negroes,  have  no  possibility  of  picking  up 
all  the  acquisitions  to  which  races  that  intermingle  have 
access.  Progress  in  the  developments  of  arts,  sciences,  and 
institutions  depends  on  fortunate  individual  variations.  The 
smaller  the  race  the  less  the  number  of  variations  possible, 
including  those  on  the  side  of  what  we  call  genius.  Again 
fortunate  variations  depend  not  so  much  on  the  general  aver- 
age intellectual  capacities  of  the  race  as  on  its  variability. 
So  one  race  may  possess  a  relative  superiority  of  achievement 
because  of  its  high  variability,  just  as,  as  we  have  already 
pointed  out,  the  greater  preeminence  of  the  male  sex  with 
regard  to  intellectual  accomplishment  is  due  to  the  greater 
number  of  variations  both  above  and  below  the  norm  which 
it  displays.  The  reasons  for  variability  are  again,  according 
to  Professor  Boas,  largely  environmental.  "We  have  seen, 
when  a  people  is  descended  from  a  small  uniform  group,  that 
then  its  variability  will  decrease;  while  on  the  other  hand, 
when  a  group  has  a  much-varied  origin  or  when  the  ancestors 
belong  to  entirely  distinct  types  the  variability  may  be  con- 
siderably increased."  l 

Again  a  race  may  be  placed  in  such  geographical  conditions 
that  a  fortuitous  variation  on  the  part  of  one  individual  may 
prove  of  enormous  value  in  the  development  of  its  civiliza-. 
tion.  Or  fortunate  geographical  conditions  may  stimulate 
types  of  activity  that  lie  dormant,  although  possible,  among 
other  races.  Thus  by  some  investigators  the  flexibility  and 
emancipation  of  the  Greek  genius  were  attributed  to  their 
access  to  the  sea  and  their  constant  intermingUng  with  othei 
cultures,  especially  the  Egyptian. 

On  the  subject  of  the  fundamental  equality  of  races  despite 
their  seeming  disparity,  as  that  at  present,  let  us  say,  between 

whites  and  negroes,  Professor  Boas  writes: 

t 

Much  has  been  said  of  the  hereditary  characteristics  of  the  Jews, 
1  Boas:  loc.  tit.,  p.  93. 


LIBRARY 

0TATV  TfACHKWS  COLL««* 
•ANTA   BARBARA.   CALIFORNIA 

INDIVroUAL  DIFFERENCES  201 

of  the  Gypsies,  of  the  French  and  Irish,  but  I  do  not  see  that  the 
external  and  social  causes  which  have  moulded  the  character  of 
members  of  these  people  have  ever  been  eliminated  satisfactorily; 
and,  moreover,  I  do  not  see  how  this  can  be  accomplished.  A  num- 
ber of  external  factors  that  influence  body  and  mind  may  easily  be 
named  —  climate,  nutrition,  occupation  —  but  as  soon  as  we  enter 
into  a  consideration  of  social  factors  and  mental  conditions  we  are 
unable  to  tell  definitely  what  is  cause  and  what  is  effect. 

The  conclusions  reached  are  therefore,  on  the  whole,  negative.  We 
are  not  inclined  to  consider  the  mental  organization  of  different  races 
of  man  as  differing  in  fundamental  points.  Although,  therefore,  the 
distribution  of  faculty  among  the  races  of  man  is  far  from  being 
known,  we  can  say  this  much:  the  average  faculty  of  the  white  race 
is  found  to  the  same  degree  in  a  large  proportion  of  individuals 
of  all  other  races,  and  although  it  is  probable  that  some  of  these 
races  may  not  produce  as  large  a  proportion  of  great  men  as  our 
own  race,  there  is  no  reason  to  suppose  that  they  are  unable  to 
reach  the  level  of  civilization  represented  by  the  bulk  of  our  own 
people.1 

In  contrast  must  be  cited  the  opinions  of  a  large  class  of 
psychologists  and  anthropologists  who  are  inclined  to  regard 
racial  differences  as  intrinsic  and  original.  Of  such,  for  ex- 
ample, is  Francis  Galton,  who  claims  in  his  Hereditary  Genius, 
that  taking  negroes  on  their  own  ground  they  still  are  inferior 
to  Europeans  by  about  one  eighth  the  difference,  say,  be- 
tween Aristotle  and  the  lowest  idiot.  Recent  psychological 
experiments  in  the  army  reveal,  again,  certain  fundamental 
intellectual  inferiorities  of  negroes,  though  whether  this  is 
environmental  or  to  be  traced  to  hereditary  causes  is  open  to 
question. 

The  fact  remains  that  there  are,  despite  the  lack  of  evidence 
for  hereditary  mental  differences,  practical  differences  in  the 
mental  activity  of  different  races  that  are  of  social  importance. 
These  differences,  which  seem  so  fundamental,  have  been 
explained  primarily  by  the  powerful  control  exercised  over  the 
individual  by  the  habits  which  he  acquires  even  before  the 

»  Boas:  loc.  tit.,  pp.  116,  123. 


202  HUMAN  TRAITS 

age  of  five  years.  These,  though  unconscious,  may  be,  as  the 
Freudian  psychologists  maintain,  all  the  more  important  for 
that  reason.  This  would  appear  to  be  the  only  explanation  of 
significant  racial  differences.  Cultural  differences  cannot, 
biologists  are  generally  agreed,  be  transmitted  in  the  germs 
that  pass  from  generation  to  generation.  One  may  say,  in 
effect,  that  an  individual  is  differentiated  in  his  mental  traits 
by  early  association  with  a  certain  race,  and  by  his  immediate 
ancestry  or  family,  rather  than  by  the  fact  of  belonging  physi- 
cally to  a  certain  race. 

The  influence  of  immediate  ancestry  or  family.  A  factor 
that  is,  on  experimental  evidence,  rated  to  be  of  high  impor- 
tance in  the  determination  of  the  differences  of  the  mental 
make-up  of  human  beings,  is  "immediate  ancestry"  or  fam- 
ily. Stated  in  the  most  simple  and  general  terms  this  means 
that  children  of  the  same  parents  tend  to  display  marked  like- 
nesses in  mental  traits,  and  to  exhibit  less  variation  among 
themselves  than  is  exhibited  in  the  same  number  of  individu- 
als chosen  at  random.  A  great  number  of  experiments  have 
been  conducted  to  determine  how  far  resemblances  in  mental 
traits  are  due  to  common  parentage.  The  correlation  be- 
tween membership  in  the  same  family  and^fesemblances  of 
social  traits  has  been  found  to  be  uniformly  high. 

The  inference  was  made  that  children  of  the  same  family 
would  show  great  resemblances  in  mental  traits,  when  accu- 
rate experiments  showed  marked  similarity  in  physical  traits 
under  the  same  conditions.  The  coefficient  of  correlation 
between  brothers  in  the  color  of  the  eye,  is,  according  to  the 
results  obtained  by  Karl  Pearson,  .52. l  The  coefficient  of 
fraternal  correlation  in  the  case  of  the  cephalic  index  (ratio 
of  width  to  length  of  head)  is  .40.  The  correlation  of  hair 

1  These  facts  are  based  on  the  reports  of  Karl  Pearson  in  his  On  the  Laws 
of  Inheritance  in  Man.  What  is  meant  by  coefficient  of  correlation  may  be 
explained  as  follows:  If  the  coefficient  of  correlation  between  father  and  son 
la  .3  and  the  coefficient  of  correlation  between  brother  and  brother  is  .5  we 
may  say:  a  son  on  the  average  deviates  from  the  general  trend  of  the  popula- 
tion by  .3  of  the  amount  of  his  father's  deviation,  a  brother  by  .5  of  the 
amount  of  his  brother. 


INDIVIDUAL  DIFFERENCES  203 

color  is  found  to  be  .55.  The  fact  of  high  correlation  be- 
tween resemblance  of  physical  traits  and  membership  in  the 
same  family  is  of  crucial  importance,  because  these  traits 
are  clearly  due  to  ancestry,  and  not  to  environmental  differ- 
ences. If  physical  traits  show  such  a  correlation,  it  is  likely 
that  mental  traits  will  also,  mental  traits  being  ultimately  de- 
pendent on  the  brain  and  the  nervous  system,  which  are  both 
affected  by  ancestry. 

Measurements  of  measurable  traits  and  observations  of  less 
objectively  measurable  ones,  have  revealed  that  immediate 
ancestry  is  in  itself  an  influential  factor  hi  producing  likenesses 
and  differences  among  men  with  respect  to  mental  traits. 
One  interesting  case,  interesting  because  it  was  a  test  of  a 
capacity  that  might  be  expected  to  be  largely  environmental 
in  its  origins,  was  that  of  the  spelling  abilities  of  children  in 
the  St.  Xavier  School  in  New  York.  Thorndike  thus  reports 
the  test: 

As  the  children  of  this  school  commonly  enter  at  a  very  early  age, 
and  as  the  staff  and  the  methods  of  teaching  remain  very  constant, 
we  have  in  the  case  of  the  180  brothers  and  sisters  included  in  the  600 
children  closely  similar  school  training.  Mr.  Earle  measured  the 
ability  of  any  individual  by  his  deviation  from  the  average  for  his 
grade  and  sex,  and  found  the  co-efficient  of  correlation  between  chil- 
dren of  the  same  family  to  be  .50 .  That  is,  any  individual  is  on  the 
average  fifty  per  cent  as  much  above  or  below  the  average  for  his  age 
and  sex  as  his  brother  or  sister. 

Similarities  in  home  training  might  theoretically  account  for  this, 
but  any  one  experienced  in  teaching  will  hesitate  to  attribute  much 
efficacy  to  such  similarities.  Bad  spellers  remain  bad  spellers  though 
their  teachers  change.  Moreover,  Dr.  J.  M.  Rice  in  his  exhaustive 
study  of  spelling  ability  found  little  or  no  relationship  between  good 
spelling  and  any  one  of  the  popular  methods,  and  little  or  none  be- 
tween poor  spelling  and  foreign  parentage.  Yet  the  training  of  a 
home  where  parents  do  not  read  or  spell  the  language  well  must  be  a 
home  of  relatively  poor  training  for  spelling.  Comman's  more  care- 
ful study  of  spelling  supports  the  view  that  ability  to  spell  is  little 
influenced  by  such  differences  in  school  or  home  training  as  com- 
monly exist.1 

1  Thorndike:  loc.  eii.,  p.  78. 


204  HUMAN  TRAITS 

In  general  the  influence  of  heredity  may  be  said  far  to  out- 
weigh the  influence  of  home  training.  In  all  the  cases  re- 
ported, the  resemblances  were  about  the  same  in  traits  subject 
to  training,  and  in  those  not  subject  to  training.  Thus  indus- 
try and  conscientiousness  and  public  spirit,  which  are  clearly 
affected  by  environment,  show  no  greater  resemblance  than 
such  practically  unmodifiable  traits  as  memory,  original  sen- 
sitiveness to  colors,  sounds,  and  distances. 

The  influence  of  parentage,  it  must  be  added,  consists  in  the 
transmission  of  specific  traits,  not  of  a  certain  "nature"  as  a 
whole.  There  are  in  the  germ  and  the  ovum  which  constitute 
the  inheritance  of  each  individual,  certain  determinant  ele- 
ments. The  elements  that  determine  the  original  traits  with 
which  each  individual  will  be  born  vary,  of  course,  in  the 
germs  produced  by  a  single  parent  less  than  among  individu- 
als chosen  at  random,  but  they  vary  none  the  less.  In  this 
variation  of  the  determining  elements  in  the  germs  of  the 
same  individual  is  to  be  found  the  cause  of  the  variation  in 
the  physical  and  mental  traits  among  children  of  the  same 
parents. 

Since  the  determining  elements,  the  unit  characters  that 
appear  in  the  sperm  or  ovum  of  each  individual,  do  not  ap- 
pear uniformly  even  in  children  of  the  same  parents,  brother 
and  sister  may  resemble  each  other  in  certain  mental  traits, 
and  differ  in  others.  "A  pair  of  twins  may  be  indistinguisha- 
ble in  eye  color  and  stature,  but  be  notably  different  in  hair 
color  and  tests  of  intellect." 

Mental  inheritance,  as  well  as  physical,  is,  then,  organized 
in  detail.  It  is  not  the  inheritance  of  gross  total  natures,  but 
of  particular  "mental  traits."  If  we  had  sufficient  data,  we 
should  be  able  to  analyze  out  the  unit  characters  of  an  in- 
dividual's mental  equipment,  so  as  to  be  able  to  predict  with 
some  accuracy  the  mental  inheritance  of  the  children  of  any 
two  parents.  In  the  case  of  physical  inheritance,  the  laws  of 
the  hereditary  transmission  of  any  given  traits  are  known  in 
considerable  detail.  The  detailed  quantitative  investigations 


INDIVIDUAL  DIFFERENCES  205 

of  inheritance,  following  the  general  lines  set  by  Mendel,  have 
given  striking  results. 

Physical  traits  have  been  found  to  be  analyzable  into  unit- 
characters  (that  is,  traits  hereditarily  transmitted  as  units), 
such  as  "curliness  of  hair,"  "blue  eyes,"  and  the  like.  Men- 
tal traits,  however,  do  not  seem  analyzable  into  the  fixed 
unit-characters  prescribed  by  the  Mendelian  laws  of  inherit- 
ance. 

The  success  which  breeders  have  had  in  the  control  of  the 
reproduction  of  plants  and  animals,  in  the  perpetuation  of  a 
stock  of  desirable  characteristics  and  the  elimination  of  the 
undesirable,  has  given  rise  to  a  somewhat  analogous  ideal  hi 
human  reproduction.  That  eugenics  has  at  least  its  theo- 
retical possibilities  with  regard  to  physical  traits,  few  biolo- 
gists will  question.  However  difficult  it  may  be  hi  practice 
to  regulate  human  matings  on  the  exclusive  basis  of  the  kind 
of  offspring  desired,  it  is  a  genuine  biological  possibility.  In  a 
negative  way,  it  has  already  in  part  been  initiated  in  the  pre- 
vention of  the  marriage  of  some  extreme  types  of  the  physi- 
cally unfit,  by  the  so-called  eugenic  marriage  laws  in  some 
states  hi  this  country.1 

But  whether  scientific  regulation  of  marriages  for  the 
production  of  eugenic  offspring  is  feasible,  even  apart  from  the 
personal  and  emotional  questions  involved,  is  open  to  ques- 
tion. No  mental  trait  such  as  vivacity,  musical  ability, 
mathematical  talent,  or  artistic  sense,  has  been  analyzed  into 
such  definitely  transmissible  unit-characters  as  "blue  eyes" 
and  "  curliness  of  hah*."  So  many  unit-characters  seem  to  be 
involved  in  any  single  mental  trait  that  it  will  be  long  before 
a  complete  analysis  of  the  hereditary  invariable  determinants 
of  any  single  trait  can  be  made. 

It  is  thus  impossible  to  tell  as  yet  with  any  security  or  pre- 
cision the  biological  components  of  any  single  mental  trait. 

1  There  have  been  laws,  as  there  is  a  fairly  decided  public  opinion,  adverse 
to  reproduction  by  the  feeble-minded  and  the  morally  defective.  But  (see 
Richardson:  The  Etiology  of  Arrested  Mental  Development,  p.  9)  there  have 
been  a  number  of  cases  of  feeble-minded  parents  producing  normal  children. 


206  \  HUMAN  TRAITS 

The  evidence  at  our  disposal,  however,  does  confirm  us  in  the 
belief  that  one  of  the  most  significant  and  certain  causes  of 
individual  differences,  whether  physical  or  mental,  is  immedi- 
ate ancestry  or  family.  Individuals  are  made  by  what  they 
are  initially,  and,  as  we  shall  presently  see,  therefore  largely 
by  their  inheritance.  With  the  latter,  environment  can  do 
just  so  much,  and  no  more.  And  the  most  significant  and 
effective  part  of  an  individual's  inheritance  is  his  family  for 
some  generations  back,  rather  than  the  race  to  which  he  be- 
longs. 

The  influence  of  the  environment.  Those  factors  so  far 
discussed  which  determine  individual  differences  are  inde- 
pendent of  the  particular  conditions  of  life  in  which  an  indi- 
vidual happens  to  be  placed.  An  individual's  race,  sex,  fam- 
ily are  beyond  modification  by  anything  that  happens  to  him 
after  birth.  Maturity,  in  so  far  as  it  is  mere  growth  inde- 
pendent of  training,  is  also  largely  a  fixed  and  unmodifiable 
condition. 

The  original  nature,  determined  by  race,  sex,  and  immedi- 
ate ancestry,  with  which  a  man  starts  life  is  subject  to  modifi- 
cation by  his  social  environment,  by  the  ideas,  customs,  com- 
panions, beliefs,  by  which  he  is  surrounded,  and  with  which 
he  comes  continuously  hi  contact.  Commonly  the  influence 
of  environment  is  held  to  be  very  high.  It  is  difficult,  how- 
ever, accurately  to  distinguish  between  effects  which  are  due 
to  original  nature  and  effects  which  are  due  to  environment. 

Differences  in  training  are  important,  but  the  results  vary 
with  the  natures  trained.  Precisely  the  same  environment 
will  not  have  the  same  consequences  for  two  different  natures. 
Two  approximately  same  natures  will  show  something  like 
the  same  effects  in  dissimilar  environments.  Human  beings 
are  certainly  differentiated  by  the  customs,  laws,  ideals, 
friends,  and  occupations  to  which  they  are  exposed.  But 
what  the  net  result  will  be  in  a  specific  case,  depends  on  the 
individual's  equipment  to  start  with,  an  equipment  that  is 
fixed  before  the  environment  has  had  a  chance  to  act  at  all. 


INDIVIDUAL  DIFFERENCES  207 

The  kindliness  and  indulgence  that  save  some  children  de- 
moralize others.  In  some  people  a  soft  answer  turneth  away 
wrath ;  in  others  it  will  kindle  it.  Andrew  Carnegie  starts  as  a 
bobbin  boy,  and  becomes  a  millionaire;  but  there  were  many 
other  bobbin  boys.  The  sunset  that  stirs  in  one  man  a  lyric, 
leaves  another  cold.  The  same  course  in  biology  arouses  in 
one  student  a  passion  for  a  life  of  science;  it  leaves  another 
hoping  never  to  see  a  microscope  again.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  same  types  of  original  capacity  thrown  into  different  en- 
vironments will  yet  attain  somewhat  comparable  results,  in 
the  way  of  character  and  achievement.  The  biographies  of 
a  few  poets,  painters,  philosophers,  and  scientists  chosen  at 
random,  show  the  most  diverse  antecedents.1 

An  individual,  again,  to  a  certain  extent,  makes  his  own 
environment.  What  kind  of  an  environment  he  will  make 
depends  on  the  kinds  of  capacities  and  .interests  he  has  to 
start  with.  Similarity  of  original  tendencies  and  interests 
brings  men  together  as  differences  among  these  keep  them 
apart.  The  libraries,  the  theaters,  and  the  baseball  parks 
are  all  equally  possible  and  accessible  features  of  then*  envi- 
ronment to  individuals  of  a  given  economic  or  social  class. 
Yet  a  hundred  individuals  with  the  same  education  and 
social  opportunities  will  make  themselves  by  choice  a  hun- 
dred different  environments.  They  will  select,  even  from 
the  same  physical  environment,  different  aspects.  The 
Grand  Cafion  is  a  different  environment  to  the  artist  and  to 
the  geologist;  a  crowd  of  people  at  an  amusement  park  con- 
stitutes a  different  environment  to  the  man  who  has  come 
out  to  make  psychological  observations,  and  the  man  who 
has  come  out  for  a  day's  fun.  A  dozen  men,  teachers  and 

1  Taking  the  social  and  professional  status  of  a  distinguished  man's  father 
as  some  index  of  the  social  environment  to  which  he  was  subjected  during  his 
youth,  we  find  some  interesting  examples:  The  father  of  John  Keats  was  a 
livery  stable-keep;  his  mother  the  daughter  of  one.  Byron's  father  was  a 
captain  in  the  Royal  Guards;  his  mother  a  Scottish  heiress.  Newton's 
father  was  a  tanner;  Pasteur's,  a  tanner;  Darwin's,  a  doctor  of  considerable 
means.  Francis  Bacon's  father  was  Lord  Keeper  of  the  Great  >Seal ;  Newton's 
was  a  farmer  and  the  headmaster  of  a  school ;  Turner  was  the  son  of  a  barber. 


208  •  HUMAN  TRAITS 

students,  selected  at  random  on  a  university  campus,  might 
well  be  expected  to  note  largely  different  though  overlap- 
ping facts,  as  the  most  significant  features  of  the  life  of  the 
university. 

The  environment  is  the  less  important  in  the  moulding  of 
character,  the  less  fixed  and  unavoidable  it  becomes.  If  an 
individual  has  the  chance  to  change  his  environment  to  suit 
his  own  original  demands  and  interests,  these  are  the  less 
likely  to  undergo  modification.  This  is  illustrated  in  the  ani- 
mal world  by  the  migratory  birds,  which  change  their  habita- 
tions with  the  seasons.  Similarly  human  beings,  to  suit  the 
original  mental  traits  with  which  they  are  endowed,  can  and 
do  exchange  one  environment  for  another.  There  are  a  very 
large  number  of  individuals  living  hi  New  York  City,  in  the 
twentieth  century,  for  example,  for  whom  a  multiplicity  of 
environments  are  possible.  The  one  that  becomes  habitual 
with  an  individual  is  a  matter  of  his  own  free  choice.  That  is, 
it  is  choice,  in  the  sense  that  it  is  independent  of  the  circum- 
stances of  the  individual's  life.  But  an  individual's  choice  of 
his  environment  must  be  within  the  limited  number  of  al- 
ternatives made  possible  by  the  original  nature  with  which  he 
is  endowed.  As  pointed  out  in  connection  with  our  discus- 
sion of  "Instinctive  Behavior,"  we  do  originally  what  gives 
satisfaction  to  our  native  impulses,  and  avoid  what  irritates 
and  frustrates  them.  We  may  be  trained  to  find  satisfactions 
in  acquired  activities,  but  there  is  a  strong  tendency  to  ac- 
quire habits  that  "chime  in,"  as  it  were,  with  the  tendencies 
we  have  to  start  with. 

There  is,  for  example,  to  certain  individuals,  intrinsic 
satisfaction  in  form  and  color;  to  others  in  sound.  To  the 
former,  pictures  and  paintings  will  tend  to  be  the  environ- 
ment selected;  to  the  latter  the  hearing  and  the  playing  of 
music.  To  those  gifted  with  sensitivity  in  neither  of  these 
directions,  pictures  may  be  through  all  their  lives  a  bore,  and 
a  piano  a  positive  nuisance. 

These  facts  of  original  nature,  therefore,  determine  initially, 


INDIVIDUAL  DIFFERENCES  209 

and  consequently  in  large  part,  what  our  environment  is 
going  to  be.  Once  we  get  into,  or  select  through  instinctive 
desires,  a  certain  kind  of  environment,  those  desires  become 
strengthened  through  habit,  and  that  environment  becomes 
fixed  through  fulfilling  those  habitual  desires.  A  man  may, 
in  the  first  place,  choose  artists  or  scholars  as  companions 
because  his  own  gifts  and  interests  are  similar.  But  such  an 
environment  will  become  the  more  indispensable  for  him 
when  it  has  the  reinforcement  of  habit  to  confirm  what  is 
already  initially  strong  in  him  by  birth.  "To  him  who  hath 
shall  be  given  "  is  most  distinctly  true  of  the  opportunities  and 
environment  open  to  those  with  native  gifts  to  begin  with. 

Original  nature  thus  sets  the  scope  and  the  limits  of  an 
individual's  character  and  achievement.  It  tells  "how 
much"  and,  in  the  most  general  way,  "what"  his  capacities 
are.  Thus  a  man  born  with  a  normal  vocal  apparatus  can 
speak;  a  man  born  with  normal  vision  can  see.  But  what 
language  he  shall  speak,  and  what  sights  he  shall  see,  depend 
on  the  social  and  geographical  situation  in  which  he  happens 
to  be  placed.  Again,  if  a  man  is  born  with  a  "high  general 
intelligence,"  that  is,  with  keen  sensory  discriminations  and 
motor  responses,  precise  and  accurate  powers  of  analysis  of 
judgment,  a  capacity  for  the  quick  and  effective  acquisition 
and  modification  of  habits,  we  can  safely  predict  that  he  will 
excel  in  some  direction.  But  whether  he  will  stand  out  as  a 
lawyer,  doctor,  philosopher,  poet,  or  executive,  it  is  almost 
impossible  from  original  nature  to  tell.1 

Individual  differences  —  Democracy  and  education.  The 
fact  that  individuals  differ  in  ability  and  interest  has  impor- 
tant consequences  for  education  and  social  progress.  It 
means,  La  the  first  place,  that  while  current  optimistic  doc- 
trines about  the  modifiability  of  human  nature  are  true,  they 
are  true  within  limits  —  limits  that  vary  with  the  individual. 

1  The  psychological  tests  used  in  the  army,  and  being  used  now  with 
modifications  in  the  admission  of  students  to  Columbia  College,  are  "  general 
intelligence"  tests.  That  is,  they  show  general  alertness  and  intellectual 
promise,  but  are  not  prophetic  of  any  specialized  talents  or  capacities. 


210  HUMAN  TRAITS 

Whether  or  not  we  shall  ever  succeed,  through  the  science  or 
the  practice  of  eugenics,  in  eliminating  low  ability  and  per- 
petuating high  exclusively,  the  fact  remains  that  there  are  hi 
contemporary  society  the  widest  variations  both  in  the  lands 
of  interest  and  ability  displayed,  and  hi  their  relative  efficacy 
under  present  social  and  industrial  conditions. 

There  are,  it  must  be  noted  at  the  outset,  a  not  inconsider- 
able number  of  individuals  who  must  be  set  down  as  absolute 
social  liabilities.  Even  if  existing  social  and  educational 
arrangements  were  perfect,  these  would  remain  unaffected 
and  unavailable  for  any  useful  purpose.  They  would  have  to 
be  endowed,  cared  for,  or  confined.  There  is  the  quite  con- 
siderable class,  who,  while  normal  with  respect  to  sensory  and 
motor  discrimination,  seem  to  be  seriously  and  irremediably 
defective  in  their  powers  of  judgment.  These  also  seem  to 
offer  invulnerable  resistance  to  education,  and  their  original 
natures  would  not  be  subject  to  modification  even  by  an 
education  perfectly  adapted  to  the  needs  of  normal  people. 

But  the  more  significant  fact,  more  significant  because  it 
affects  so  many,  is  the  fact  that  within  the  ranks  of  the  great 
class  of  normal  people,  there  are  fundamental  inherited  differ- 
ences hi  ability  and  interest.  Next  hi  importance  to  the  fact 
that  an  individual  is  human  is  the  fact  that  he  is  an  individual, 
with  very  specific  initial  capacities  and  desires.  For  educa- 
tion the  implications  are  serious.  Education  aims,  among 
other  things,  to  give  the  individual  habits  that  will  enable 
him  to  deal  most  effectively  with  his  environment.  But  an 
individual  can  be  trained  best,  it  goes  without  saying,  hi  the 
capacities  and  interests  he  has  to  begin  with.  Education  can- 
not, therefore,  be  wholesale  in  its  methods.  It  must  be  so  ad- 
justed as  to  utilize  and  make  the  most  of  the  multifarious 
variety  of  native  abilities  and  interests  which  individuals  dis- 
play. If  it  does  not  utilize  these,  and  instead  sets  up  arbi- 
trary moulds  to  which  individuals  must  conform,  it  will  be 
crushing  and  distorting  the  specific  native  activities  which 
are  the  only  raw  material  it  has  to  work  upon. 


INDIVIDUAL  DIFFERENCES  ,  211 

There  have  not  as  yet  been  many  detailed  quantitative 
studies  of  individual  differences  that  would  enable  educators, 
if  they  were  free  to  do  so,  scientifically  to  adapt  education  to 
specific  needs  and  possibilities.  Beginnings  in  this  direction 
are  being  made,  though  rather  in  advanced  than  in  more 
elementary  education.  Professional  and  trade  schools,  and 
group-electives  in  college  courses  are  attempts  in  this  direc- 
tion. Any  attempt,  of  course,  to  adapt  education  to  specific 
needs  and  interests,  instead  of  crushing  them  into  a  priori 
moulds,  requires,  of  course,  a  wider  social  recognition  and 
support  of  education  than  is  at  present  common.  For  indi- 
vidual differences  require  attention.  And  where  millions  are 
to  be  educated,  individual  attention  requires  an  immense 
investment  in  teaching  personnel. 

But  hi  this  utilization  of  original  interests  and  capacities 
lies  the  only  possibility  of  genuinely  effective  education.1 
In  the  first  place  to  try  in  education  to  give  individuals  habits 
for  which  they  have  no  special  innate  tendencies  to  begin  with, 
is  costly.  Secondly,  to  train  individuals  for  types  of  life  or 
work  for  which  their  gifts  and  desires  are  ill  adapted  is  to 
promote  at  once  inefficiency  and  unhappiness.  One  reason 
why  the  chance  to  identify  one's  life  with  one's  work  (as  is  the 
case  with  the  artist  and  the  scholar)  is  so  universally  recog- 
nized as  good  fortune,  is  because  it  is  so  rare.  A  general  and 
indiscriminate  training  of  men,  as  if  they  were  all  fitted  with 
the  same  talents  and  the  same  longings,  does  as  much  as  un- 
derpayment or  overwork  to  impair  the  quality  of  the  work 
done  and  the  satisfaction  derived  from  it. 

It  has  latterly  been  recognized  that  industry  offers  the 
crucial  opportunity  to  utilize  to  the  fullest  individual  differ- 

1  A  beginning  in  the  application  of  this  principle  has  been  made  by  the 
vocational  guidance  and  employment  management  work  which  ia  being  done 
with  increasing  scientific  accuracy  throughout  the  United  States.  Individual 
differences  and  interests  are  studied  with  a  view  to  putting  "  the  right  man 
in  the  right  place."  This  slogan  is  borrowed  from  the  Committee  on  Classi- 
fication and  Personnel,  which  during  the  Great  War,  through  its  trade  tests 
and  other  machinery  of  differentiation,  utilized  for  the  national  welfare  the 
specific  abilities  of  thousands  of  drafted  men. 


212  HUMAN  TRAITS 

ences.  By  "getting  the  right  man  in  the  right  place,"  we  at 
once  get  the  work  done  better  and  make  the  man  better  satis- 
fied. If  adequate  attention  is  given  to  "placement,"  to  the 
specific  demands  put  upon  men  by  specific  types  of  work,  and 
to  the  specific  capacities  of  individuals  for  fulfilling  those  de- 
mands, we  will  be  capitalizing  variations  among  men  instead 
of  being  handicapped  by  them.  As  it  is,  specific  differences 
do  exist,  and  men  enter  occupations  and  professions  ignoring 
them.  As  a  result  both  the  job  and  the  man  suffer;  the 
former  is  done  poorly,  and  the  latter  is  unsuccessful  and  un- 
happy. 

It  must  be  noted  that  the  existence  of  specific  differences 
between  individuals  does  not  altogether,  or  often  even  in  part, 
imply  superiority  or  inferiority.  It  implies  in  each  case  in- 
feriority or  superiority  with  respect  to  the  performance  of  a 
particular  type  of  work.  Whether  scientific  insight  and  ac- 
curacy is  better  than  musical  skill,  whether  a  gift  for  sales- 
manship surpasses  a  gift  for  mathematics,  depends  on  the 
social  situation  and  the  standards  that  happen  to  be  current 
among  the  group.  An  intensely  disagreeable  person  may  be 
the  best  man  for  a  particular  job.  All  scientific  observation 
can  do  is  to  note  individual  differences,  to  note  what  work 
makes  demands  upon  what  capacities,  and  try  to  bring  the 
man  and  the  job  together. 

It  must  be  emphasized  that,  while  individual  capacities 
determine  what  an  individual  can  do,  social  ideals  and  tradi- 
tions determine  what  he  will  do,  because  they  determine  what 
he  will  be  rewarded  and  encouraged  to  do.  There  is  no 
question  but  that  in  our  industrial  civilization  certain  types 
of  ability,  that  of  the  organizer,  for  example,  have  a  high 
social  value.  There  is  no  question  but  that  there  are  other 
abilities,  which  under  our  present  customs  and  ideals  we 
reward  possibly  beyond  their  merit,  as,  to  take  an  extreme 
case,  that  of  a  championship  prize  fighter.  We  can  through 
education  and  vocational  guidance  utilize  all  native  capaci- 
ties. To  make  provision  for  the  utilization  of  all  native 


INDIVIDUAL  DIFFERENCES  213 

capacities  is  to  have  an  efficient  social  life.  But  to  what  end 
our  efficient  human  machinery  shall  be  used  depends  on  the 
ideals  and  customs  and  purposes  that  happen  to  be  current  in 
the  social  order  at  any  given  time. 

In  the  words  of  Professor  Thorndike,  "we  can  invest  in 
profitable  enterprises  the  capital  nature  provides."  But 
what  profiteth  a  man  or  a  society,  is  a  matter  for  reflective 
determination;  it  is  not  settled  for  us,  as  are  our  limitations, 
at  birth. 

The  net  result  of  scientific  observation  in  this  field  is  the 
discovery,  in  increasingly  precise  and  specific  form,  that  men 
are  most  diverse  and  unequal  in  interest  and  capacity.  The 
ideal  of  equality  comes  to  mean,  under  scientific  analysis, 
equality  of  opportunity,  leveling  all  social  inequalities;  the 
fact  of  natural  inequalities  and  divergences  remains  incon- 
testable. 

There  may  even  be,  as  recent  psychological  tests  seem  to 
indicate,  a  certain  proportion  of  individuals  who  are  not 
competent  to  take  an  intelligent  part  hi  democratic  govern- 
ment, who,  having  too  little  intellectual  ability  to  follow  the 
simplest  problem  needing  cooperative  and  collective  decision, 
must  eternally  be  governed  by  others.  If  these  facts  come  to 
be  authenticated  by  further  data,  it  merely  emphasizes  the 
fact  that  in  a  country  professedly  democratic  it  is  essential 
to  devise  an  education  that  will,  hi  the  case  of  each  individual, 
educate  up  to  the  highest  point  of  native  ability. 

Where  a  country  is  ostensibly  democratic,  a  few  informed 
citizens  will  govern  the  many  uninformed,  unless  the  latter 
are  educated  to  an  intelligent  knowledge  and  appreciation  of 
then-  political  duties  and  obligations.  Furthermore,  the  citi- 
zens of  a  community  who  are  prevented  from  using;  their  na- 
tive gifts  will  be  both  useless  and  unhappy.  Certainly  this  is 
an  undesirable  condition  in  a  society  where  all  individuals  are 
expected,  so  far  as  possible,  to  be  ends  in  themselves  and  not 
merely  means  for  the  ends  of  others. 


CHAPTER  X 

LANGUAGE  AND  COMMUNICATION1 

IT  was  earlier  pointed  out  that  human  beings  alone  possess 
language.  They  alone  can  make  written  symbols  and  heard 
sounds  stand  for  other  things,  for  objects,  actions,  qualities, 
and  ideas.  In  this  chapter  the  consideration  of  language  may 
best  be  approached  from  the  spoken  tongue,  under  the  influ- 
ence of  which,  except  in  the  simplest  type  of  pictorial  writing, 
the  written  form  develops.2 

From  the  point  of  view  of  the  student  of  behavior,  language, 
spoken  language  especially,  is  a  habit,  acquired  like  walking 
or  swimming.  It  is  made  possible  primarily  by  the  fact  that 
human  beings  possess  a  variety  and  flexibility  of  vocal  reflexes 
possessed  by  no  other  animal.  All  the  higher  animals  have  a 
number  of  vocal  reflexes,  which  are  called  out  primarily  in  the 
expression  of  emotion  or  desire.  Cries  of  pain,  hunger,  rage, 
sex  desire  or  desire  for  companionship,  are  common  to  a  great 
number  of  the  animal  species.  But  these  cries  and  vocal 
utterances  are  limited,  and  comparatively  unmodifiable. 
They  are  moreover  expressed,  so  far  as  experimental  observa- 
tion can  reveal,  with  no  consciousness  of  the  specific  signifi- 
cance of  particular  sounds  and  are  used  as  the  involuntary 
expression  of  emotion  rather  than  as  a  specific  means  of 
communication. 

. . .  The  primates  have  a  much  larger  number  of  such  vocal  in- 
stincts than  the  other  mammals,  and  a  much  larger  number  of  stimuli 
can  call  them  out,  e.g.,  injury  to  bodily  tissue  calls  out  one  group; 
hunger  calls  out  a  certain  group;  sex  stimuli  (mate,  etc.)  another; 
and  similarly  cold,  swiftly  moving  objects,  tones,  strange  animals 

1  Much  of  the  technical  material  for  this  chapter  is  drawn  from  Leonard 
Bloomfield's  The  Study  of  Language,  and  W.  D.  Whitney's  The  Life  and 
Growth  of  Language. 

1  Bloomfield:  loc.  tit.,  pp.  7-8. 


LANGUAGE  AND  COMMUNICATION        215 

call  out  others.  When  attachments  are  formed  between  the  female 
and  her  offspring  another  large  group  is  called  into  action.  There  is 
no  evidence  to  show  in  the  case  of  mammals  that  these  vocal  instincts 
are  modified  by  the  sounds  of  other  animals.  . . .  These  throat  habits 
may  be  cultivated  to  such  an  extent  in  birds  that  we  may  get  an 
approximation,  more  or  less  complete,  to  a  few  such  habits  possessed 
by  the  human  being.  Such  throat  habits,  however,  are  not  language 
habits.1 

In  human  beings  language,  it  is  clear,  may  attain  extraor- 
dinary refinement  and  complexity,  and  may  convey  ex- 
tremely fine  shades  and  subtleties  of  emotion  or  idea.  This 
results  from  the  fact  that  man  is  born  with  a  vocal  appa- 
ratus far  superior  in  development  to  that  of  any  of  the 
animals. 

It  is  pretty  clear  that  the  mutant  man,  when  thrown  off  from  the 
primate  stock,  sprang  forth  with  a  vocal  apparatus  different  from 
that  of  the  parent  stock,  and  possessing  abundant  richness  in  reflexes, 
even  far  surpassing  that  found  in  the  bird.  It  is  interesting  to  ob- 
serve, too,  in  this  connection,  that  within  the  narrow  space  occupied 
by  the  vocal  apparatus  we  have  a  system  of  muscular  mechanisms 
which  has  within  it,  looking  at  it  now  as  a  whole,  the  same  possibili- 
ties of  habit  formation  that  we  find  in  the  remaining  portion  of  bodily 
musculature. ...  It  is  probable  that  in  a  few  years  we  shall  under- 
take the  study  of  such  habits  from  exactly  the  same  standpoint  that 
we  now  employ  in  studies  upon  the  acquisition  of  skill  in  the  human 
being.1 

The  human  baby  starts  its  expressive  habits  by  emitting 
with  wide-open  mouth  an  undifferentiated  shriek  of  pain.  A 
little  later  it  yells  in  the  same  way  at  any  kind  of  discomfort. 
It  begins  before  the  end  of  the  first  year  to  croon  when  it  is 
contented.  As  it  grows  older  it  begins  to  make  different 
sounds  when  it  experiences  different  emotions.  And  with 
remarkable  rapidity  its  repertoire  of  articulatory  movements 
has  greatly  increased. 

Speech  that  begins  in  the  child  as  a  mere  vague  vocal 
expression  of  emotion  soon  begins  to  exhibit  a  marked  element 
of  mimicry.  The  child  begins  to  associate  the  words  uttered 

1  Wataon:  Behavior,  p.  323.  « Ibid.,  pp.  323-24. 


216  HUMAN  TRAITS 

by  his  nurse  or  parents  with  the  specific  objects  they  point  to. 
He  comes  to  connect  "milk,"  "sleep,"  "mother"  with  the 
experiences  to  which  they  correspond.  The  child  thus  learns 
to  react  to  certain  sounds  as  significant  of  certain  experiences. 
Unlike  Adam,  he  does  not  have  to  give  names  to  animals,  or 
for  that  matter  to  anything  else  on  earth.  They  all  have  spe- 
cific names  in  the  particular  language  in  which  he  happens 
to  be  brought  up.  In  the  case  of  other  habits,  largely  through 
trial  and  error,  he  learns  to  associate  given  sounds  expressed 
by  other  people  about  him  with  given  experiences,  pleasant 
or  unpleasant.  He  learns  further  to  imitate,  so  far  as  possi- 
ble, these  sounds,  as  a  means  of  more  precisely  communicating 
his  wants  or  securing  their  fulfillment. 

In  this  connection  students  of  language  frequently  have 
raised  the  question  of  how  man  first  came  to  associate  a  given 
sound-sequence  with  a  given  experience.  Like  fire,  language 
was  once  conceived  to  be  a  divine  gift.  Another  theory 
postulated  a  genius  who  took  it  into  his  head  to  give  the 
things  of  earth  their  present  inevitable  names.  One  other 
theory  equally  dubious  held  that  language  started  in  onomato- 
poetic  expressions  like  "Bow-wow,"  for  dog.  Still  another 
hypothesis  once  highly  credited  held  that  the  sounds  first 
uttered  were  the  immediate  and  appropriate  expressions 
called  out  by  particular  types  of  emotional  experience.  The 
validity  of  the  last  two  theories  has  been  rendered  particu- 
larly dubious.  The  very  instances  of  imitative  words  cited, 
words  like  "cuckoo,"  "crash,"  "flash,"  were,  in  their  original 
forms,  quite  other  than  they  are  now.  And  that  words  are 
not  immediately  apposite  expressions  of  the  emotions  which 
they  represent,  has  been  generally  recognized.  In  gesture 
language,  the  gesture  has  to  remain  fairly  imitative  or  expres- 
sive to  be  intelligible.  But  an  examination  of  half  a  dozen 
casual  words  in  contemporary  languages  shows  how  arbitrary 
are  the  signs  used,  and  how  little  appositeness  or  relevance 
,  they  bear  in  their  sound  to  the  sense  which  they  represent. 
The  detailed  study  of  the  perfectly  regular  changes  that  so 


LANGUAGE  AND  COMMUNICATION        217 

largely  characterize  the  evolution  of  language,  have  revealed 
the  inadequacy  of  any  of  these  views.  There  seems  to  be,  in 
fact,  no  explanation  of  the  origin  of  the  language  any  more 
than  there  is  of  the  origin  of  life.  All  that  linguistic  science 
can  do  is  to  reveal  the  history  of  language.  And  in  this  his- 
tory, human  language  stands  revealed  as  a  highly  refined 
development  of  the  crude  and  undifferentiated  expressions 
which,  under  emotional  stress,  are  uttered  by  all  the  animals. 

Language  as  a  social  habit.  Language,  as  has  repeatedly 
been  pointed  out,  is  essentially  social  in  character.  It  is,  in 
the  first  place,  primarily  an  instrument  of  communication 
between  individuals,  and  is  cultivated  as  such.  In  human 
speech,  interjections  like  "  Oh! "  or  "Ah! "  are  still  involuntary 
escapes  of  emotion,  but  language  develops  as  a  vehicle  of 
communication  to  others  rather  than  as  a  mere  emotional  out- 
let for  the  individual.  Even  if  it  were  possible  for  the  myth- 
ical man  brought  up  in  solitude  on  a  desert  island  to  have  a 
language,  it  is  questionable  whether  he  would  use  it.  Since 
language  is  a  way  of  making  our  wants,  desires,  information 
known  to  others,  it  is  stimulated  by  the  presence  of  and  con- 
tact with  others.  Excess  vitality  may  go  into  shouting  or 
song,1  but  language  as  an  instrument  of  specific  utterance 
comes  to  have  a  more  definite  use  and  provocation.  Man, 
as  already  pointed  out,  is  a  highly  gregarious  animal,  and 
language  is  his  incomparable  instrument  for  sharing  his  emo- 
tions and  ideas  and  experience  with  others.  The  whole  proc- 
ess of  education,  of  the  transmission  of  culture  from  the 
mature  to  the  younger  members  of  a  society,  is  made  possible 
through  this  instrument,  whereby  achievements  and  tradi- 
tions are  preserved  and  transmitted  in  precise  and  public 
terms. 

Secondly,  language  is  social  in  that,  for  the  individual  at 
least,  it  is  socially  acquired.  The  child  first  imitates  sounds 
without  any  consciousness  of  their  meaning,  just  as  he  imi- 

1  Human  song  is  by  some  linguistic  experts,  including  Bloomfield,  held  to 
have  originated  in  the  chant  of  rhythmic  labor,  as  in  rowing  or  threshing. 


218  HUMAN  TRAITS 

tajes  other  actions  in  sheer  "physiological  sympathy."  But 
he  learns  soon,  by  watching  the  actions  of  other  people,  that 
given  sounds  are  always  performed  when  these  others  do  given 
actions.  He  learns  that  some  sounds  are  portents  of  anger 
and  punishment;  still  others  of  satisfaction  and  pleasure.  He 
learns  soon  to  specify  his  utterances,  to  use  sounds  as  specific 
stimuli,  to  attain  through  other  people  specific  satisfactions. 
The  child  is  born  with  a  flexible  set  of  reflexes.  In  which  way 
they  shall  be  developed  depends  entirely  on  the  accident  of  the 
child's  environment.  Whether  he  shall  call  it  "bread"  or 
"pain"  or  "brod,"  depends  on  the  particular  social  environ- 
ment in  which  he  from  the  first  hears  that  particular  item  of 
experience  referred  to.  A  child  of  American  missionaries  in 
Turkey  picks  up  the  language  of  that  country  as  well  as  that 
of  his  own.  An  English  child  brought  up  under  a  French 
nurse  may  learn  with  perfect  ease  the  foreign  tongue,  and  to 
the  exclusion  of  that  of  his  native  country.  Indeed,  so  com- 
pletely subject  is  one  in  this  regard  to  one's  early  environ- 
ment, that  it  is  not  only  difficult  in  later  life  to  acquire  a  new 
pronunciation,  but  one  finds  it  impossible  to  breathe  freely, 
as  it  were,  in  the  whole  psychological  atmosphere  of  a  foreign 
language.  Its  grammatical  categories,  its  spelling,  its  logic 
seem  hopelessly  irrational.  It  was  perfectly  natural  of  the 
Englishman  in  the  story,  when  he  was  told  that  the  French 
called  it  "pain,"  to  insist,  "Well,  it's  bread,  anyhow."  Many 
a  reader  of  a  foreign  language  which  has  become  habitual  can 
still  not  refrain  from  translating,  as  he  reads,  what  seem  to 
him  irrational  idioms  into  the  familiar,  facile,  and  sensible 
modes  of  his  native  tongue. 

Language  and  mental  life.  The  connection  of  language 
with  thought  has  repeatedly  been  noted.  It  has  even  been 
questioned  whether  thought  in  any  effective  sense  is  possible 
without  words.  In  general  it  may  be  said  that  thinking  de- 
mands clean-cut  and  definite  symbols  to  work  with,  and  that 
language  offers  these  in  incomparable  form.  A  word  enables 
one  to  isolate  hi  thought  the  dominant  elements  of  an  experi- 


LANGUAGE  AND  COMMUNICATION      „  219 

ence  and  prevents  them  from  "slipping  through  one's  fin- 
gers." 

The  importance  of  having  words  by  which  concepts  may  be 
distinguished  and  isolated  from  one  another  will  become 
clearer  by  a  brief  reminder  of  the  nature  of  reflection.  Think- 
ing is  in  large  part  (as  will  be  discussed  in  detail  in  chapter 
xin)  concerned  with  the  breaking-up  of  an  experience  into 
its  significant  elements.  But  experience  begins  with  objects, 
and  so  far  as  perceptual  experience  is  concerned,  ends  there. 
We  perceive  objects,  not  qualities,  actions,  or  ideas  apart  from 
objects.  And  the  elements  into  which  thinking  analyzes  an 
experience  are  never  present,  save  in  connection  with,  as 
parts  of,  a  sensibly  perceived  object.  Thus  we  never  perceive 
whiteness  save  in  white  objects;  warmth  save  in  warm  ob- 
jects; red  save  in  red  objects.  We  never,  for  that  matter, 
perceive  so  abstract  a  thing  as  an  "object."  We  experience 
red  houses  or  red  flags;  white  flowers,  white  shoes,  white 
paper;  warm  stoves,  warm  soup,  and  warm  plates.  Even 
houses  and  stoves  and  shoes  are,  in  a  sense,  abstractions.  No 
two  of  these  are  ever  alike.  But  it  is  of  the  highest  impor- 
tance for  us  to  have  some  means  of  identifying  and  preserving 
in  memory  the  significant  resemblances  between  our  experi- 
ences. Else  we  should  be,  as  it  were,  utterly  astounded  every 
time  we  saw  a  chair  or  a  table  or  a  fork.  Though  they  may, 
in  each  case  hi  which  we  experience  them,  differ  in  detail, 
chairs,  tables,  forks  have  certain  common  features  which  we 
can  "abstract"  from  the  gross  total  experience,  and  by  a 
word  or  "  term,"  define,  record,  communicate,  and  recall.  The 
advantage  of  a  precise  technical  vocabulary  over  a  loose 
"popular"  one  is  that  we  can  by  means  of  the  former  more 
accurately  single  out  the  specific  and  important  elements  of 
an  experience  and  distinguish  them  from  one  another.  The 
common  nouns,  or  "general  names"  in  a  language  indicate 
to  what  extent  and  in  what  manner  that  language,  through 
some  or  other  of  its  users,  classifies  its  experiences.  Highly 
developed  languages  make  it  possible  to  classify  similarities 


220  HUMAN  TRAITS 

not  easily  detected  in  crude  experience.  They  make  it 
possible  to  identify  other  things  than  merely  directly  sensed 
objects. 

In  primitive  languages  experience  is  described  and  classified 
only  in  so  far  as  it  is  perceptual.  In  other  words,  primitive 
languages  have  names  for  objects  only,  not  for  ideas,  qualities, 
or  relations.  Thus  it  is  impossible  in  some  Indian  languages 
to  express  the  concept  of  a  "brother"  by  the  same  word,  un- 
less the  "brother"  is  in  every  case  in  the  same  identical  cir- 
cumstances. One  cannot  use  the  same  word  for  "man"  in 
different  relations:  "man-eating,"  "man-sleeping,"  "man- 
standing-here,"  and  "man-running-there"  would  all  be  sepa- 
rate compound  words.  Among  the  Fuegians  there  is  one 
word  which  means  "to  look  at  one  another,  hoping  that  each 
will  offer  to  do  something  which  both  parties  desire  but  are 
unwilling  to  do."  l  Marett  writes  hi  this  connection: 

Take  the  inhabitants  of  that  cheerless  spot,  Tierra  del  Fuego, 
whose  culture  is  as  rude  as  that  of  any  people  on  earth.  A  scholar 
who  tried  to  put  together  a  dictionary  of  their  language  found  that 
he  had  got  to  reckon  with  more  than  thirty  thousand  words,  even 
after  suppressing  a  large  number  of  forms  of  lesser  importance.  And 
no  wonder  that  the  tally  mounted  up.  For  the  Fuegians  had  more 
than  twenty  words,  some  containing  four  syllables,  to  express  what 
for  us  would  be  either  "he"  or  "she";  then  they  had  two  names  for 
the  sun,  two  for  the  moon,  and  two  more  for  the  full  moon,  each  of 
the  last  named  containing  four  syllables  and  having  no  elements  in 
common.2 

It  is  easy  to  see  how  very  little  refinement  or  abstraction 
from  experience  could  be  made  with  such  a  cumbersome  and 
inflexible  vocabulary.  The  thirty  thousand  word  vocabulary 
expressed  a  poverty  of  linguistic  technique  rather  than  a  rich- 
ness of  ideas. 

At  the  other  extreme  stands  a  language  like  English,  which 
is,  to  an  extraordinary  degree,  an  "  analytic  "  language.  It  has 
comparatively  no  inflections.  This  means  that  words  can  be 
used  and  moved  about  freely  in  different  situations  and  rela- 

1  Marett:  Anthropology,  p.  140.  »  Ibid.,  pp.  138-39. 


LANGUAGE  AND  COMMUNICATION        221 

tions.  Thus  the  dominant  elements  of  an  experience  can  be 
freely  isolated.  A  noun  standing  for  a  certain  object  or  rela- 
tion is  not  chained  to  a  particular  set  of  accompanying  circum- 
stances. "Man"  stands  as  a  definite  concept,  whether  it  be 
used  with  reference  to  an  ancient  Greek,  a  wounded  man,  a 
brave,  a  wretched,  a  competent,  or  a  tall  man.  We  can  give 
the  accompanying  circumstances  by  additional  adjectives, 
which  are  again  freely  movable  verbally  and  intellectually. 
Thus  we  can  speak  of  a  brave  child  and  a  tall  tower  as  well  as 
a  brave  man  and  a  tall  man.  In  Marett's  words: 

The  evolution  of  language  then,  on  this  view,  may  be  regarded  as  a 
movement  away  from  the  holophrastic  [compound]  in  the  direction 
of  the  analytic.  When  every  piece  in  your  playbox  of  verbal  bricks 
can  be  dealt  with  separately,  because  it  is  not  joined  on  hi  all  sorts  of 
ways  to  the  other  pieces,  then  only  can  you  compose  new  construc- 
tions to  your  liking.  Order  and  emphasis,  as  is  shown  by  English, 
and  still  more  conspicuously  by  Chinese,  suffice  for  sentence-build- 
ing. Ideally,  words  should  be  individual  and  atomic.  Every  modi- 
fication they  suffer  by  internal  change  of  sound,  or  by  having  pre- 
fixes or  suffixes  tacked  on  to  them,  involves  a  curtailment  of  their 
free  use  and  a  sacrifice  of  distinctness.  It  is  quite  easy,  of  course, 
to  think  confusedly,  even  whilst  employing  the  clearest  type  of  lan- 
guage. ...  On  the  other  hand,  it  is  not  feasible  to  attain  a  high 
degree  of  clear  thinking,  when  the  only  method  of  speech  available 
is  one  that  tends  toward  wordlessness  —  that  is  to  say,  one  that  is 
relatively  deficient  in  verbal  forms  that  preserve  their  identity  in  all 
contexts.1 

Languages  differ  not  only  in  being  more  or  less  analytic, 
but  in  their  general  modes  of  classification.  That  is,  not  only 
do  they  have  more  or  less  adequate  vocabularies,  but  in  then* 
syntax,  their  sentence  structure,  their  word  forms,  they  vari- 
ously organize  experience.  It  is  important  to  note  that  in 
these  divergent  classifications  no  one  of  them  is  more  final 
than  another.  We  are  tempted,  despite  this  fact,  to  think 
that  the  grammar,  spelling,  and  phonetics  of  our  own  lan- 
guage constitute  the  last  word  in  the  rational  conveyance  of 
thought. 

>  Marett:  loc.  tit.,  pp.  141-42. 


222  HUMAN  TRAITS 

The  instability  of  language.  Language  being  a  social  habit, 
it  is  to  be  expected  that  it  should  not  stay  fixed  and  change- 
less. The  simpler  physiological  actions  are  not  performed  in 
the  same  way  by  any  two  individuals,  and  no  social  practice 
is  ever  performed  in  the  same  way  by  two  members  of  a  group, 
or  by  two  different  generations.  In  this  connection  writes 
Professor  Bloomfield: 

The  speech  of  former  times,  wherever  history  has  given  us  records 
of  it,  differs  from  that  of  the  present.  When  we  read  Shakspere, 
for  example,  we  are  disturbed  by  subtle  deviations  from  our  own 
habits  in  the  use  of  words  and  in  construction;  if  our  actors  pro- 
nounced their  lines  as  Shakspere  and  his  contemporaries  did  we 
should  say  that  they  had  an  Irish  or  German  brogue.  Chaucer  we 
cannot  read  without  some  grammatical  explanation  or  a  glossary; 
correctly  pronounced  his  language  would  sound  to  us  more  like  Low 
German  than  like  our  English.  If  we  go  back  only  about  forty  gen- 
erations from  our  time  to  that  of  Alfred  the  Great,  we  come  to  Eng- 
lish as  strange  to  us  as  modern  German,  and  quite  unintelligible, 
unless  we  study  carefully  both  grammar  and  lexicon.1 

There  are,  in  general,  three  kinds  of  changes  that  take  place 
in  a  language.  "Phonetic"  changes,  that  is,  changes  hi  the 
articulation  of  words,  regardless  of  the  meaning  they  bear. 
This  is  illustrated  simply  by  the  word  "name"  which,  in  the 
eighteenth  century  was  pronounced  ne'm.  "Analogic" 
changes,  that  is,  changes  hi  the  articulation  of  words  under 
the  influence  of  words  somewhat  similar  in  meaning.  The 
word  "flash,"  for  example,  became  what  it  is  because  of  the 
sound  of  words  associated  in  meaning,  "crash,"  "dash," 
"smash."  The  third  process  of  change  hi  language  alters 
not  only  the  articulate  forms  of  words,  not  only  then-  sound, 
but  their  sense.  All  these  changes,  as  will  be  presently  pointed 
out,  can  easily  be  explained  by  the  laws  of  habit  early  dis- 
cussed in  this  book,  these  laws  being  applicable  to  the  habit  of 
language  as  well  as  to  any  other. 

In  the  case  of  phonetic  change,  it  is  only  to  be  expected  that 
the  sounds  of  a  language  will  not  remain  eternally  changeless. 

1  Bloomfield:  loc.  tit.,  p.  195. 


LANGUAGE  AND  COMMUNICATION        223 

A  language  is  spoken  by  a  large  number  of  individuals,  no 
two  of  whom  are  gifted  with  precisely  the  same  vocal  appa- 
ratus. In  consequence  no  two  of  them  will  utter  words  in 
precisely  the  same  way.  Before  writing  and  printing  were 
general,  these  slight  variations  in  articulation  were  bound  to 
have  an  effect  on  the  language.  People  more  or  less  uncon- 
sciously imitate  the  sounds  they  hear,  especially  if  they  are 
not  checked  up  by  the  written  forms  of  words.  Even  to-day 
changes  are  going  on,  and  writing  is  at  best  a  poor  representa- 
tion of  phonetics.  The  Georgian,  the  Londoner,  the  Welsh- 
man and  the  Middle  Westerner  can  understand  the  same 
printed  language,  precisely  because  it  does  not  at  all  represent 
their  peculiarities  of  dialect.  Variant  sounds  uttered  by  one 
individual  may  be  caught  up  in  the  language,  especially  if  the 
variant  articulation  is  simpler  or  shorter.  Thus  the  shorten- 
ing of  a  word  from  several  syllables  to  one,  though  it  starts 
accidentally,  is  easily  made  habitual  among  a  large  number 
of  speakers  because  it  does  facilitate  speech.  In  the  classic 
example,  pre-English,  "habeda"  and  "habedun"  became  in 
Old  English,  "  hsefde"  and  "  hsefdon,"  and  are  in  present  Eng- 
lish (I,  we)  "  had."  1  In  the  same  way  variations  that  reduce 
the  unstressed  syllables  of  a  word  readily  insinuate  themselves 
into  the  articulatory  habits  of  a  people.  In  the  production 
of  stressed  syllables,  the  vocal  chords  are  under  high  tension 
and  the  breath  is  shut  in.  It  is  easier,  consequently,  to  pro- 
duce the  unstressed  syllables  "with  shortened,  weakened  ar- 
ticulations . . .  lessening  as  much  as  possible  all  interference 
with  the  breath  stream."  8  Thus  "contemporaneous  pro- 
hibition" becomes  "  kntempa'jejnjas  paha'bifn."  Sound 
changes  thus  take  place,  in  general,  as  lessenings  of  the  la- 
bor of  articulation,  by  means  of  adaptation  to  prevailing  rest 
positions  of  the  vocal  organs.  They  take  place  further  in 
more  or  less  accidental  adaptations  to  the  particular  speech 
habits  of  a  people.  That  is,  those  sounds  become  discarded 
that  do  not  fit  in  with  the  general  articulatory  tendencies  of 

»  Bloomfield:  loc.  eit.,  p.  211.  *  Ibid.,  p.  212. 


224  HUMAN  TRAITS 

&  language.  Of  this  the  weakening  of  unstressed  syllables  in 
English  and  palatalization  in  Slavic  are  examples. 1 

These  changes  of  sound  in  language  so  far  discussed  are 
made  independently  of  the  meaning  of  words.  Other  changes 
in  articulation  occur,  as  already  noted,  by  analogy  of  sound  or 
meaning.  That  is,  words  that  have  associated  meanings 
come  to  be  similarly  articulated.  This  is  simply  illustrated  in 
the  case  of  the  child  who  thinks  it  perfectly  natural  to  assim- 
ilate by  analogy  "came"  to  "come."  Thus  the  young  child 
will  frequently  say,  until  he  is  corrected,  he  "corned,"  he 
"bringed,"  he  "fighted."  In  communities  where  printing 
and  writing  and  reading  are  scarce,  such  assimilation  by 
analogy  has  an  important  effect  in  modifying  the  forms  of 
words. 

Changes  in  meaning.  The  changes  in  language  most  im- 
portant for  the  student  of  human  behavior  are  changes  hi 
meaning.  Language,  it  must  again  be  stressed,  is  an  instru- 
ment for  the  communication  of  ideas.  The  manner  in  which 
the  store  of  meanings  hi  a  language  becomes  increased  and 
modified  (the  etymology  of  a  language)  is,  in  a  sense,  the  his- 
tory of  the  mental  progress  of  the  people  which  use  it.  For 
changes  hi  meaning  are  primarily  brought  about  when  the 
words  in  a  language  do  not  suffice  for  the  larger  and  larger 
store  of  experiences  which  individuals  within  the  group  desire 
to  communicate  to  one  another.  The  meanings  of  old  words 
are  stretched,  as  it  were,  to  cover  new  experiences;  old  words 
are  transferred  bodily  to  new  experiences;  they  are  slightly 
modified  in  form  to  apply  to  new  experiences  analogous  to  the 
old;  new  words  are  formed  after  analogy  with  ones  already 
in  use. 

A  simple  illustration  of  the  application  of  a  word  already 
current  to  a  wider  situation  is  the  application  of  the  word 
"head"  as  a  purely  objective  name,  to  a  new  experience, 
which  has  certain  analogies  with  the  old;  as  when  we  speak 
of  a  "head"  of  cabbage,  the  "head"  of  an  army,  the  "head" 

>  Ibid.,  p.  218. 


LANGUAGE  AND  COMMUNICATION        225 

of  the  class,  or  the  "headmaster."  In  many  such  cases  the 
transferred  meaning  persists  alongside  of  the  old.  Thus  the 
word  "capital"  used  as  the  name  for  the  chief  city  in  a 
country,  persists  alongside  of  its  use  in  "capital"  punish- 
ment, "capital"  story,  etc.  But  sometimes  the  transferred 
meaning  of  the  word  becomes  dominant  and  exclusive.  Thus 
"disease"  (dis-ease)  once  meant  discomfort  of  any  kind. 
Now  it  means  specifically  some  physical  ailment.  The  older 
use  has  been  completely  discarded.  To  "spill"  once  meant, 
in  the  most  general  sense,  to  destroy.  Now  all  the  other  uses, 
save  that  of  pouring  out,  have  lapsed.  "Meat"  which  once 
meant  any  kind  of  nourishment  has  now  come  to  refer  almost 
exclusively  (we  still  make  exceptions  as  in  the  case  of  sweet- 
meat) to  edible  flesh.  Whenever  the  special  or  novel  applica- 
tion of  the  word  becomes  dominant,  then  we  say  the  meaning 
of  the  word  has  changed. 

Mental  progress  is  largely  dependent  on  the  transfer  of 
words  to  newer  and  larger  spheres  of  experience,  the  modifica- 
tion of  old  words  or  the  formation  of  new  ones  to  express  the 
increasing  complexity  of  relations  men  discover  to  exist  be- 
tween things.  In  the  instances  already  cited  some  of  the 
transferred  words  lost  their  more  general  meaning  and  became 
specialized,  as  in  the  case  of  "meat,"  "spill,"  etc.  Other 
words,  like  "  head,"  though  they  may  keep  their  specific  objec- 
tive meaning,  may  come  to  be  used  in  a  generalized  intellec- 
tual sense.  One  of  the  chief  ways  by  which  a  language  remains 
adequate  to  the  demands  of  increasing  knowledge  and  experi- 
ence of  the  group  is  through  the  transfer  of  words  having 
originally  a  purely  objective  sense  to  emotional  and  intel- 
lectual situations.  These  words,  like  "bitter,"  "sour," 
"sharp,"  referring  originally  only  to  immediate  physical 
experiences,  to  objects  perceived  through  the  senses,  come  to 
have  intellectual  and  emotional  significance,  as  when  we  speak 
of  a  "sour"  face,  a  "bitter"  disappointment,  a  "sharp" 
struggle.  Most  of  our  words  that  now  have  abstract  emo- 
tional or  intellectual  connotations  were  once  words  referring 


226  HUMAN  TRAITS 

exclusively  to  purely  sensible  (sense  perceptual)  experiences. 
"Anxiety"  once  meant  literally  a  "narrow  place,"  just  as 
when  we  speak  of  some  one  having  "a  close  shave."  To 
"refute"  once  meant  literally  "to  knock  out"  an  argument. 
To  "understand"  meant  "to  stand  in  the  midst  of."  To 
"  confer  "  meant "  to  bring  together."  Sensation  words  them- 
selves were  once  still  more  concrete  in  their  meaning.  "Vio- 
let" and  "orange"  are  obviously  taken  as  color  names  from 
the  specific  objects  to  which  they  still  refer.  Language  has 
well  been  described  as  "a  book  of  faded  metaphors."  The 
history  of  language  has  been  to  a  large  extent  the  assimilation 
and  habitual  mechanical  use  of  words  that  were,  when  first 
used,  strikingly  figurative. 

The  novel  use  of  a  word  that  is  now  a  quite  regular  part 
of  the  language  may  in  many  cases  first  be  ascribed  to  a  dis- 
tinguished writer.  Shakespeare  is  full  of  expressions  which 
have  since,  and  because  of  his  use  of  them,  become  literally 
household  words.  Many  words  that  have  now  a  general 
application  arose  out  of  a  peculiar  local  situation,  myth,  or 
name.  ' '  Boycott ' '  which  has  become  a  reasonably  intelligible 
and  universal  word,  only  less  than  fifty  years  ago  referred 
particularly  and  exclusively  to  Boycott,  a  certain  unpopular 
Irish  landowner  who  was  subjected  to  the  kind  of  discrimina- 
tion for  which  the  word  has  come  to  stand.  "Burke"  used 
as  a  verb  has  its  origin  in  the  name  of  a  notorious  Edinburgh 
murderer.  Characters  in  fiction  or  drama,  history  or  legend 
come  to  be  standard  words.  Every  one  knows  what  we 
mean  when  we  speak  of  a  Quixotic  action,  a  Don  Juan, 
a  Galahad,  a  Chesterfield.  To  tantalize  arises  from  the 
mythical  perpetual  frustration  of  Tantalus  in  the  Greek 
Btory.  Expressions  that  had  a  special  meaning  in  the 
works  of  a  philosopher  or  litterateur  come  to  be  generally 
used,  as  "Platonic  love."  l  Again  words  that  arise  as  mere 
popular  witticisms  or  vulgarisms  may  be  brought  into  the 
language  as  permanent  acquisitions.  "Mob,"  now  a  quite 

1  Though  this  is  very  loosely  and  inaccurately  used. 


LANGUAGE  AND  COMMUNICATION        227 

legitimate  word,  was  originally  a  shortening  of  mobile  vul- 
gum,  and  was,  only  a  hundred  years  ago,  suspect  in  polite  dis- 
course. 

Outside  the  deliberate  invention  by  scientists  of  terms  for 
the  new  relations  they  have  discovered,  more  or  less  spon- 
taneous variation  in  the  use  of  words  and  their  unconscious 
assimilation  by  large  numbers  with  whose  other  language 
habits  they  chance  to  fit,  is  the  chief  source  of  language 
growth.  One  might  almost  say  words  are  wrenched  from 
their  original  local  setting,  and  given  such  a  generalized  appli- 
cation that  they  are  made  available  for  an  infinite  complexity 
of  scientific  and  philosophical  thought. 

Uniformities  in  language.  Thus  far  we  have  discussed 
changes  in  language  from  the  psychological  viewpoint,  that  is, 
we  have  considered  the  human  tendencies  and  habits  which 
bring  about  changes  hi  the  articulation  and  meaning,  in  the 
sound  and  the  sense,  of  words.  It  is  evident  from  these  con- 
siderations that  there  can  be  no  absolute  uniformity  in 
spoken  languages,  not  even  in  the  languages  of  two  persons 
thrown  much  together.  Within  a  country  where  the  same 
language  is  ostensibly  spoken,  there  are  nevertheless  differ- 
ences in  the  language  as  spoken  by  different  social  strata,  by 
different  localities.  There  are  infinite  subtle  variations  be- 
tween the  articulation  and  the  word  uses  of  different  individ- 
uals. There  are  languages  within  languages,  the  dialects  of 
localities,  the  jargon  of  professional  and  trade  groups,  the 
special  pronunciations  and  special  and  overlapping  vocabu- 
laries of  different  social  classes. 

But  while  there  are  these  many  causes,  both  of  individual 
difference  and  of  differing  social  environments,  why  languages 
do  not  remain  uniform,  there  are  similar  causes  making  for  a 
certain  degree  of  uniformity  within  a  language.  There  is  one 
very  good  reason  why,  to  a  certain  extent,  languages  do  attain 
uniformity;  they  are  socially  acquired.  The  individual  learns 
to  speak  a  language  from  those  about  him,  and  individuals 
brought  up  within  the  same  group  will  consequently  learn  to 


228  HUMAN  TRAITS 

speak,  within  limits,  the  same  tongue;  they  will  learn  to 
articulate  through  imitation,  and,  while  no  individual  ever 
precisely  duplicates  the  sounds  of  others,  he  duplicates  them 
as  far  as  possible.  He  learns,  moreover,  as  has  already  been 
pointed  out,  to  attach  given  meanings  to  given  words,  not  for 
any  reason  of  then*  peculiar  appositeness  or  individual  caprice, 
but  because  he  learns  that  others  about  him  habitually  attach 
certain  meanings  to  certain  sounds.  And  since  one  is  stimu- 
lated to  expression  primarily  by  the  desire  and  necessity  of 
communication  of  ideas  a  premium  is  put  upon  uniformity. 
It  is  of  no  use  to  use  a  language  if  it  conceals  one's  thoughts. 
In  consequence,  within  a  group  individual  variations,  unless 
for  reasons  already  discussed  they  happen  to  lend  themselves 
to  ready  assimilation  by  the  group,  will  be  mere  slips  of  the 
tongue.  They  will  be  discarded  and  forgotten,  or,  if  the  indi- 
vidual cannot  rid  himself  of  them,  will  like  stammering  or 
stuttering  or  lisping  be  set  down  as  imperfections  and  social 
handicaps.  The  uniformity  of  language  within  groups  whose 
individual  members  have  much  communication  with  each 
other  is  thus  to  a  certain  extent  guaranteed.  A  man  who  is 
utterly  individualistic  in  his  language  might  just  as  well  have 
no  language  at  all,  unless  for  the  satisfaction  of  expressing  to 
himself  his  own  emotions.1  Language  is  learned  from  the 
group  among  whom  one  moves,  and  those  sounds  and  senses 
of  words  are,  on  the  whole,  retained,  which  are  intelligible  to 
the  group.  Those  sounds  and  meanings  will  best  be  under- 
stood which  are  already  in  use.  No  better  illustration  could 
be  found  of  how  custom  and  social  groups  preserve  and  en- 
force standards  of  individual  action. 

The  obverse  of  the  fact  that  intercommunication  promotes 
uniformity  in  language  is  that  lack  of  communication  brings 
about  language  differentiation.  The  less  the  intercommuni- 
cation between  groups,  the  more  will  the  languages  of  the 

1  There  have  been  a  few  poets,  like  Emily  Dickinson,  or  mystics  like  Blake, 
some  of  whose  work  exhibits  almost  complete  unintelligibility  to  most  read- 
era,  though  doubtless  it  had  a  very  specific  meaning  and  vividness  to  the 
writers  concerned. 


[LANGUAGE  AND  COMMUNICATION        229 

groups  differ,  however  unif orm  they  may  be  within  the  groups 
themselves.  The  most  important  factor  in  differentiation  of 
language  is  local  differentiation.  In  some  European  countries 
every  village  speaks  its  own  dialect.  In  passing  from  one 
village  to  another  the  dialects  may  be  mutually  intelligible, 
but  by  the  time  one  has  passed  from  the  first  village  in  the 
chain  to  the  last,  one  may  find  that  the  dialect  of  the  first 
and  last  are  utterly  unintelligible  to  each  other.  A  real  break 
in  language,  as  opposed  to  dialect  variations,  occurs  where 
there  is  a  considerable  barrier  between  groups,  such  as  a 
mountain  range,  a  river,  a  tribal  or  political  boundary.  The 
more  impenetrable  the  barriers  between  two  groups  the  more 
will  the  languages  differ,  and  the  less  mutually  intelligible  will 
they  be. 

Looking  back  over  the  history  of  language  the  student  of 
linguistics  infers  that  those  languages  which  bear  striking  or 
significant  similarities  are  related.  Thus  Spanish,  Italian, 
French,  Portuguese,  and  Roumanian  are  traceable  directly 
back  to  the  Latin.  This  does  not  mean  that  all  over  the  areas 
occupied  by  the  speakers  of  these  languages  Latin  was  origi- 
nally spoken.  But  the  Romans  in  their  conquests,  both  mili- 
tary and  cultural,  were  able  to  make  their  own  language 
predominant.  The  variations  which  make  French  and  Rou- 
manian, say,  mutually  unintelligible,  are  due  to  the  fact  that 
Latin  was  for  the  natives  in  these  conquered  territories  as- 
similated to  their  own  languages.  So  that,  in  the  familiar 
example,  the  Latin  "homo"  becomes  "uomo"  in  Italian, 
"homme"  in  French,  "hombre"  in  Spanish,  and  "om"  ii> 
Roumanian.  Similarly  related  but  mutually  unintelligible 
languages  among  the  American  Indians  have  been  traced  to 
three  great  source-languages. 

The  history  of  European  languages  offers  an  interesting 
example  of  differentiation.  English  and  German,  for  exam- 
ple, are  both  traceable  back  to  West-Germanic;  from  that, 
in  turn  to  a  hypothecated  primitive  West-Germanic.  All 
the  European  languages  are  traceable  back  to  a  hypothe- 


230  HUMAN  TRAITS 

cated  Primitive  Indo-European. l  The  theory  held  by  most 
students  of  this  subject  is  that  the  groups  possessing  this 
single  uniform  language  spread  over  a  wider  and  wider  area, 
gradually  became  separated  from  each  other  by  geographical 
barriers  and  tribal  affiliations,  and  gradually  (and  on  the 
part  of  individual  speakers  unconsciously)  modified  their 
speech  so  that  slight  differences  accumulated,  and  resulted 
finally  in  widely  different  and  mutually  unintelligible  lan- 
guages. 

The  process  of  differentiation  in  the  languages  of  different 
groups  is  very  marked.  We  find,  for  example,  in  the  early 
history  of  Greece  and  Rome,  a  number  of  widely  different 
dialects.  There  seems  every  evidence  that  these  were  derived 
from  some  more  primitive  tongue.  We  find,  likewise,  on  the 
American  continent,  several  hundred  different  languages, 
which  —  to  the  untrained  observer  —  bear  not  the  slightest 
resemblance  to  each  other.  This  welter  and  confusion  can 
also  be  traced  back  to  a  few  primitive  and  uniform  languages. 

Thus  the  history  of  civilization  reveals  this  striking 
differentiation  in  the  language  of  different  groups,  a  coun- 
ter-tendency making  for  a  wider  uniformity  of  particular  lan- 
guages. One  "favored  dialect"  becomes  standard,  predom- 
inant and  exclusive.  Thus  out  of  all  the  French  dialects,  the 
one  that  survives  is  the  speech  of  Paris;  Castilian  becomes 
standard  Spanish,  and  hi  ancient  Greece  the  language  of 
Athens  supersedes  all  the  other  dialects.  The  reasons  for  the 
survival  of  one  out  of  a  great  welter  of  dialects  may  be  various. 
Not  infrequently  the  language  of  a  conquering  people  has,  in 
more  or  less  pure  form,  succeeded  the  language  of  the  con- 
quered. This  was  the  case  in  the  history  of  the  Romance 
languages,  which  owe  their  present  forms  to  the  spread  of 
Roman  arms  and  culture.  There  was,  as  is  well  known,  a 

*By  the  word  "primitive"  the  linguistic  experts  mean  a  language  the 
existence  of  which  is  inferred  from  common  features  of  several  related  lan- 
guages, of  which  written  records  are  current,  but  of  which  no  actual  records 
exist.  Thus,  if  there  were  no  written  records  of  Latin  the  approximate  recon- 
struction of  it  by  linguists  would  be  called  "  Primitive  Romance." 


LANGUAGE  AND  COMMUNICATION        281 

similar  development  in  the  case  of  the  English  language.  The 
Norman  Conquest  introduced,  under  the  auspices  of  a  socially 
superior  and  victorious  group,  a  language  culturally  superior 
to  the  Anglo-Saxon.  The  latter  was,  of  course,  not  entirely 
replaced,  but  profoundly  modified,  especially  in  the  enrich- 
ment and  enlargement  of  its  vocabulary.  One  has  but  to 
note  such  words  as  "place,"  "choir,"  "beef,"  etc.,  which 
came  entirely  to  replace  in  the  language  the  indigenous  Anglo- 
Saxon  names  for  those  objects. 

Colonization  and  commercial  expansion  may  bring  about 
the  replacement  of  the  native  language  of  special  localities  by 
the  language  of  the  colonizers,  at  least  in  hybrid  form.  The 
spread  of  English  through  Australia,  and  through  the  larger 
part  of  North  America,  the  spread  of  Spanish  through  South 
America,  hi  each  instance  practically  replacing  the  native 
tongues,  are  cases  in  point.1 

Standardization  of  language.  At  the  present  time,  and  for 
some  tune  hi  the  past,  the  differentiation  of  language  has  been 
greatly  lessened  by  the  stabilizing  influence  of  print.  The 
printed  word  continually  recalls  the  standard  pronunciation 
and  moaning,  and  the  changes  in  language  (save  those  delib- 
erately introduced  by  the  addition  of  scientific  terms,  or  the 
official  modifications  of  spelling,  etc.,  as  in  some  European 
countries 2)  are  much  less  rapid,  various,  and  significant  than 
hitherto.  It  is  true  that  differences  in  articulation  and  usage, 
especially  the  former,  do  still,  to  a  degree,  persist  and  develop. 
Our  Southern  accent,  with  its  drawling  of  words  and  slurring 
of  consonants,  our  Middle- Western  accent,  with  its  stressed 
articulation  of  "r's"  and  its  nasalizing  tendencies,  are  in- 
stances of  this  persistence. 

But  the  printed  language  —  English,  for  example  —  the 
official  language,  which  is  published  in  the  newspapers,  peri- 

1  Dialects  and  jargons  are  often  the  result  of  the  partial  assimilation  by 
the  speakers  of  one  language  of  another  language  to  which  they  are  exposed. 
French-Canadian  and  Pennsylvania  Dutch  are  examples  of  such  a  mixture. 

1  In  France  the  Ministry  of  Education  from  time  to  time  settles  points  of 
orthography  definitely. 


HUMAN  TRAITS 

odicals,  and  books,  which  is  taught  in  the  schools,  and  spoken 
from  the  pulpit,  the  platform,  on  the  stage,  in  cultivated 
society,  is  more  or  less  alike  all  over  the  United  States  and 
wherever  English  is  spoken.  It  is,  of  course,  only  a  standard, 
a  norm,  an  ideal,  which  like  the  concept  of  the  circle,  never 
quite  appears  in  practice.  The  language  which  is  spoken, 
even  in  the  conversation  of  the  educated,  by  no  means  con- 
forms to  the  ideal  of  "correct  usage."  But  the  important 
fact  is  that  the  standard  language  is  a  standard,  that  it  is, 
moreover,  a  widely  recognized  and  effective  standard.  The 
dictionaries  and  the  grammars  become  authoritative,  and  are 
referred  to  when  people  consciously  set  about  discovering 
what  is  the  accepted  or  correct  meaning  or  pronunciation. 
But  a  more  effectual  authority  is  exerted  by  the  teaching  they 
receive  at  school,  and  the  continuous,  though  unnoticed,  influ- 
ence of  the  more  or  less  standard  language  which  they  read 
in  print. 

Even  phonetic  changes,  though  they  persist,  are  checked 
from  spreading  to  the  point  of  mutually  unintelligible  dialects 
by  the  standards  enforced  in  print.  The  "accents"  in  vari- 
ous parts  of  the  United  States,  for  example,  differ,  but  not  to 
the  point  of  becoming  absolutely  divergent  languages.  The 
Southerner  and  the  Westerner  may  be  conscious  in  each 
other's  speech  of  a  quaint  and  curious  difference  hi  pronun- 
ciation, but  they  can,  except  hi  extreme  cases,  completely 
understand  each  other.1 

The  most  important  stabilizing  influence  of  print,  however, 
is  its  fixation  of  meanings.  It  makes  possible  their  mainte- 
nance uncorrupted  and  unmodified  over  wide  stretches  in 
which  there  are  phonetic  variations.  These  variant  articula- 
tions in  different  parts  of  a  large  country  where  the  same  lan- 
guage is  spoken,  would,  if  unchecked,  eventually  modify  the 

1  Some  of  the  isolated  districts  in  the  Kentucky  mountains  reveal  dialects 
with  some  important  differences  in  vocabulary  and  construction.  These  are 
shown  most  strikingly  in  some  of  the  ballads  of  that  region  which  have  been 
collected  by  William  Aspinwall  Bradley,  and  by  Howard  Brockway.  Rural 
schools  and  the  breakdown  of  complete  isolation  will  probably  in  time  elimi- 
nate this  divergence. 


LANGUAGE  AND  COMMUNICATION        233 

sense  of  words.  Print  largely  prevents  this  from  happening. 
One  can  read  newspapers  published  in  Maine,  California, 
Virginia,  and  Iowa,  without  noticing  any  significant,  or,  in 
many  cases,  even  slight  differences  in  vocabulary  or  construc- 
tion. There  are,  of  course,  local  idioms,  but  these  persist  in 
conversation,  rather  than  in  print,  save  where  they  are  caught 
up  and  exploited  for  literary  purposes  by  a  Bret  Harte,  a 
Mark  Twain,  or  an  O.  Henry. 

Counter-tendencies  toward  differentiation.  While  the 
standard  language  does  become  fixed  and  stable,  there  are, 
in  the  daily  life  of  different  social  groups,  varying  actual  lan- 
guages. Every  class,  or  profession,  every  social  group, 
whether  of  interest,  or  occupation,  has  its  slight  individuality 
in  articulation  or  vocabulary.  We  still  observe  that  mem- 
bers of  a  family  talk  alike;  sometimes  households  have  liter- 
ally then*  own  household  words.  And  on  different  economic 
and  social  levels,  in  different  sports,  intellectual,  professional, 
and  business  pursuits,  we  notice  slightly  different  "actual" 
languages.  These  partly  overlap.  The  society  lady,  the 
business  man,  the  musician,  the  professor  of  literature,  the 
mechanic,  have  specializations  of  vocabulary  and  construc- 
tion, but  there  is,  for  each  of  them,  a  great  common  linguistic 
area.  Every  individual's  speech  is  a  resultant  of  the  various 
groups  with  whom  he  associates.  He  is  affected  in  his  speech 
habits  most  predominantly,  of  course,  by  his  most  regular 
associates,  professional  and  social.  In  consequence  we  still 
mark  out  a  man,  as  much  as  anything,  by  the  kind  of  lan- 
guage he  speaks.  The  mechanic  and  the  man  of  letters  are 
not  likely  to  be  mistaken  for  each  other,  if  overheard  in  a 
street  car.  Many  literary  and  dramatic  characters  are  memo- 
rable for  their  speech  habits.  Such  types  are  successful  when 
they  do  hit  upon  really  significant  linguistic  peculiarities. 
Their  frequent  failures  lie  in  making  the  language  of  a  par- 
ticular social  type  artificially  stable.  No  one  ever  talks  quite 
as  the  conventional  stage  policeman,  stage  professor,  and 
stage  Englishman  talk. 


234  HUMAN  TRAITS 

These  actual  variations  in  the  language,  as  it  is  used  by 
various  groups  who  are  brought  up  under  the  same  standard 
language,  operate  to  prevent  complete  stabilization  of  lan- 
guage. Such  variations  are  remarkably  influential,  consider- 
ing the  conservative  influences  upon  language  of  the  repeated 
and  continuous  suggestion  made  by  the  printed  page.  The 
language  is,  in  the  first  place,  being  continually  enriched 
through  increments  of  new  words  and  modifications  of  old 
ones,  from  the  special  vocabularies  of  trades,  professions, 
sciences,  and  sports.  Through  some  accidental  appositeness 
to  some  contemporaneous  situation,  these  may  become  gen- 
erally current.  A  recent  and  familiar  example  is  the  term 
"camouflage,"  which  from  its  technical  sense  of  protective 
coloration  has  become  a  universally  understood  name  for 
moral  and  intellectual  pretense.  The  vocabulary  of  baseball 
has  by  this  time  already  given  to  the  language  words  that 
show  promise  of  attaining  eventual  legitimacy.  An  increas- 
ingly large  source  of  enrichment  of  the  native  tongue  comes 
from  the  "spontaneous  generation"  of  slang,  which,  starting 
in  the  linguistic  whimsicality  of  one  individual,  gets  caught 
up  in  conversation,  and  finds  its  ultimate  way  into  the  lan- 
guage. Important  instruments,  certainly  in  the  United 
States,  in  spreading  such  neologisms  are  the  humorous  and 
sporting  pages  of  the  newspapers,  in  which  places  they  not 
infrequently  originate.1  Whether  a  current  slang  expression 
will  persist,  or  perish  (as  do  thousands  initiated  every  year), 

1  H.  L.  Mencken  in  his  suggestive  book,  The  American  Language,  sees  in 
this  upahoot  of  phrases  indigenous  to  the  soil  and  the  temper  of  the  American 
people,  and  of  grammatical  constructions  also,  symptoms  of  the  increasing 
divergence  of  the  American  from  the  English  language.  That  there  are  a 
large  number  of  special  expressions  exclusively  used  in  the  United  States, 
and  parts  of  the  United  States,  that  are  not  found  in  use  in  England,  goes 
without  saying.  Every  one  knows  that  the  Englishman  says  "  lift "  where  we 
say  "elevator,"  "shop,"  where  we  are  likely  to  say  "store."  There  are  sig- 
nificant differences  to  be  found  even  in  the  casual  expressions  of  American 
and  English  newspapers.  But  it  is  doubtful  whether  the  divergence  can  go 
very  far,  in  view  of  the  constant  intercommunication,  the  rapidity  of  travel 
between  the  two  countries,  and  the  promiscuous  reading  of  English  books 
in  America,  and  American  books  in  England. 


LANGUAGE  AND  COMMUNICATION         235 

depends  on  accidents  of  contemporary  circumstances.  If  the 
expression  happens  to  set  off  aptly  a  contemporary  situation, 
it  may  become  very  widespread  until  that  situation,  such  as  a 
political  campaign,  is  over.  But  it  may,  like  the  metaphor 
of  a  poet,  have  some  universal  application.  "Log-rolling," 
"  graft,"  "  bluff,"  have  come  into  the  language  to  stay.  Roose- 
velt's "pussy-foot,"  and  "Ananias  Club"  are,  perhaps,  re- 
membered, but  show  less  promise  of  permanency.  "  Movies  " 
has  already  ceased  to  be  a  neologism,  its  ready  adoption  illus- 
trating a  point  already  mentioned,  namely,  that  a  variation 
that  facilitates  speech  (as  "  movies  "  does  in  comparison  with 
"  moving  pictures,"  or  "  motion  pictures  ")  has  a  high  poten- 
tiality of  acceptance. 

Language  as  emotional  and  logical.  Since  language  is 
primarily  useful  as  an  instrument  of  communication,  it  should 
ideally  be  a  direct  and  clean-cut  representation  of  experience. 
It  should  be  as  unambiguous,  and  immediate,  as  telegraphy, 
algebra,  or  shorthand.  But  language  has  two  functions, 
which  interfere  with  one  another.  Words  not  only  represent 
logical  relations;  they  provoke  emotional  responses.  They 
not  only  explicitly  tell ;  they  implicitly  suggest.  They  are  not 
merely  skeletons  of  thought;  they  are  clothed  with  emotional 
values.  They  are  not,  in  consequence,  transitive  vehicles  of 
thought.  Words  should,  from  the  standpoint  of  communica- 
tion, be  mere  signals  to  action,  which  should  attract  attention 
only  in  so  far  as  they  are  signals.  They  should  be  no  more 
regarded  as  things  in  themselves  than  is  the  green  lamp  which 
signals  a  locomotive  engineer  to  go  ahead.  They  should  be  as 
immediate  signals  to  action  as,  at  a  race,  the  "  Ready,  set,  go  " 
of  the  starter  is  to  the  runner.  Yet  this  rarely  happens  in  the 
case  of  words.  They  frequently  impede  or  mislead  action  by 
arousing  emotions  irrelevant  to  their  intellectual  significance, 
or  provoke  action  on  the  basis  of  emotional  associations  rather 
than  on  their  merits,  so  to  speak,  as  logical  representations  of 
ideas. 

To  take  an  example:  England,  as  an  intellectual  symbol, 


236  HUMAN  TRAITS 

may  be  said  to  be  a  name  given  to  a  small  island  bounded  by 
certain  latitudes  and  longitudes,  having  a  certain  distribution 
of  raw  materials  and  human  beings,  and  a  certain  topography. 
It  might  just  as  well  be  represented  by  X  for  all  practical 
purposes.  Thus  in  the  secret  code  of  the  diplomatic  corps  if 
X  were  agreed  on  as  the  symbol  for  England,  it  would  be  just 
as  adequate  and  would  even  save  time.  But  England  (that 
particular  sound)  for  a  large  number  of  individuals  who  have 
been  brought  up  there,  has  become  the  center  of  deep  and 
far-reaching  emotional  associations,  so  that  its  utterance  in 
the  presence  of  a  particular  listener  may  do  much  more  than 
represent  a  given  geographical  fact.  It  may  be  associated 
with  all  that  he  loves,  and  all  that  he  remembers  with  affec- 
tion; it  may  suggest  landscapes  that  are  dear  to  him,  a  familiar 
street  and  house,  a  particular  set  of  friends,  and  a  cherished 
historical  tradition  of  heroic  names  and  storied  places.  It 
may  arouse  such  ardor  and  devotion  as  Henley  expresses  in 
his  famous  England,  my  England  : 

"What  have  I  done  for  you, 

England,  my  England, 
What  is  there  I  would  not  do, 

England,  my  own? 
With  your  glorious  eyes  austere, 
As  the  Lord  were  walking  near, 
Whispering  terrible  things  and  dear, 

As  the  song  on  your  bugles  blown, 

England  — 

Round  the  world  on  your  bugles  blown!" 

Words  thus  become  powerful  provocatives  of  emotion. 
They  become  loaded  with  all  the  energies  that  are  aroused  by 
the  love,  the  hate,  the  anger,  the  pugnacity,  the  sympathy, 
for  the  persons,  objects,  ideas,  associated  with  them.  People 
may  be  set  off  to  action  by  words  (just  as  a  bull  is  set  off  by  a 
red  rag),  although  the  words  may  be  as  little  freighted  with 
meaning  as  they  are  deeply  weighted  with  emotion. 

Poets  and  literary  men  in  general  exploit  these  emotional 
values  that  cling  to  words.  Indeed,  in  epithets  suggesting 


LANGUAGE  AND  COMMUNICATION        287 

illimitable  vistas,  inexpressible  sorrows,  and  dim-remembered 
joys,  lies  half  the  charm  of  poetry. 

"Before  the  beginning  of  years, 

There  came  to  the  making  of  man, 
Time  with  a  gift  of  tears, 

Grief  with  a  glass  that  ran; 
Pleasure  with  pain  for  a  leaven, 

Summer  with  flowers  that  fell; 
Remembrance  fallen  from  Heaven, 

And  madness  risen  from  Hell, 
Strength  without  hands  to  smite, 

Love  that  endures  for  a  breath, 
Night  the  shadow  of  light, 

And  life,  the  shadow  of  death."  * 

Swinburne  does  not,  to  be  sure,  give  us  much  information, 
and  what  there  is  is  mythical,  but  he  uses  words  that  are  fairly 
alive  with  suggested  feeling. 

But  this  emotional  aura  in  which  words  are  haloed,  beauti- 
ful though  it  is  in  literature,  and  facile  though  it  makes  the 
communication  of  common  feelings,  is  a  serious  impediment 
in  the  use  of  words  as  effective  instruments  of  communication. 
Language  oscillates,  to  speak  metaphorically,  between  algebra 
and  music.  To  be  useful  as  an  instrument  of  thought  it 
should  keep  to  the  prosaic  terseness  of  a  telegraphic  code.  One 
should  be  able  to  pass  immediately  from  the  word  to  the  thing, 
instead  of  dissolving  in  emotions  at  the  associations  that  the 
mere  sound  or  music  of  the  epithet  arouses.  Words  should, 
so  to  speak,  tend  to  business,  which,  in  their  case,  is  the  com- 
munication of  ideas.  But  words  are  used  in  human  situa- 
tions. And  they  accumulate  during  the  lifetime  of  the  indi- 
vidual a  great  mass  of  psychological  values.  Thus,  to  take 
another  illustration,  "brother"  is  a  symbol  of  a  certain  rela- 
tionship one  person  bears  to  another.  "  Your  "  is  also  a  sym- 
bolic statement  of  a  relation.  But  if  a  telegram  contains  the 
statement "  Your  brother  is  dead,"  it  is  less  a  piece  of  informa- 
tion to  act  on  than  a  deep  emotional  stimulus  to  which  one 
responds.  Bacon  long  ago  pointed  out  how  men ' '  worshipped 

1  Swinburne:  Atalanla  in  Calydon  (David  Mackay  edition),  p.  393. 


238  HUMAN  TRAITS 

words."  As  we  shall  see  presently,  he  was  thinking  of  errors 
in  the  intellectual  manipulation  of  words.  Perhaps  as  serious 
is  the  inveterate  tendency  of  men  to  respond  to  the  more  or 
less  irrelevant  emotions  suggested  by  a  word,  instead  of  to  its 
strict  intellectual  content.  If  the  emotions  stirred  up  by  an 
epithet  were  always  appropriate  to  the  word's  significance, 
this  might  be  an  advantage.  But  not  inf requently,  as  we  shall 
see  immediately,  words  suggest  and  may  be  used  to  suggest 
emotions  that,  like  "the  flowers  that  bloom  in  the  spring," 
have  nothing  to  do  with  the  case. 

In  practice,  political  and  social  leaders,  and  all  who  have 
to  win  the  loyalties  and  support  of  masses  of  men  have  appre- 
ciated the  use  —  and  misuse  —  that  might  be  made  of  the 
emotional  fringes  of  words.  Words  are  not  always  used  as 
direct  and  transparent  representations  of  ideas;  they  are  as 
frequently  used  as  stimuli  to  action.  A  familiar  instance  is 
seen  hi  the  use  of  words  in  advertisements.  Even  the  honest 
advertiser  is  less  interested  in  giving  an  analysis  of  his  product 
that  will  win  him  the  rational  estimation  and  favor  of  the 
reader  than  in  creating  hi  the  reader  through  the  skillful  use  of 
words,  emotions  and  sympathies  favorable  to  his  product. 
The  name  of  a  talcum  powder  or  tobacco  is  the  subject  of 
mature  consideration  by  the  advertising  expert,  because  he 
knows  that  the  emotional  flavor  of  a  word  is  more  important 
in  securing  action  than  its  rational  significance.1  "Ask  Dad! 
He  knows!"  does  not  tell  us  much  about  the  article  it  adver- 
tises, but  it  gives  us  the  sense  of  secure  trust  that  we  had  as 
a  boy  hi  those  mysterious  things  in  an  almost  completely  un- 
known world  which  our  fathers  knew  and  approved. 

On  a  larger  scale,  hi  political  and  social  affairs  words  are 
powerful  provocatives  of  emotion  and  of  actions,  determining 
to  no  small  degree  the  allegiances  and  loyalties  of  men  and 

1  It  has  been  pointed  out  that  such  an  expression  as  "cellar  door,"  con- 
sidered merely  from  the  viewpoint  of  sound,  is  one  of  the  most  romantically 
suggestive  words  in  the  English  language.  A  consideration  of  some  of  the 
names  of  biscuits  and  collars  will  show  a  similar  exploitation  of  both  the 
euphony  and  the  emotional  fringes  of  words. 


LANGUAGE  AND  COMMUNICATION        289 

the  satisfaction  and  dissatisfactions  which  they  experience  in 
causes  and  leaders.  A  word  remains  the  nucleus  of  all  the 
associations  that  have  gathered  round  it  in  the  course  of  an 
individual's  experience,  though  the  object  for  which  it  stands 
may  have  utterly  changed  or  vanished.  This  is  illustrated  in 
the  history  of  political  parties,  whose  personnel  and  principles 
change  from  decade  to  decade,  but  whose  names  remain  stable 
entities  that  continue  to  secure  unfaltering  respect  and  loy- 
alty. In  the  same  way,  the  name  of  country  has  emotional 
reverberations  for  one  who  has  been  brought  up  in  its  tradi- 
tions. Men  trust  old  words  to  which  they  have  become  accus- 
tomed just  as  they  trust  old  friends.  To  borrow  an  illustra- 
tion from  Graham  Wallas,  for  many  who  call  themselves 
Socialists,  Socialism  is  something  more  than 

a  movement  towards  greater  social  equality,  depending  for  its  force 
upon  three  main  factors,  the  growing  political  power  of  the  working 
classes,  the  growing  social  sympathy  of  many  members  of  all  classes, 
and  the  belief,  based  on  the  growing  authority  of  scientific  method, 
that  social  arrangements  can  be  transformed  by  means  of  conscious 
and  deliberate  contrivance.1 

Rather 

the  need  for  something  for  which  one  may  love  and  work  has  created 
for  thousands  of  workingmen  a  personified  Socialism:  Socialism,  a 
winged  goddess  with  stern  eyes  and  a  drawn  sword,  to  be  the  hope 
of  the  world,  and  the  protector  of  those  that  suffer.1 

Political  leaders  and  advertising  experts,  no  less  than  poets, 
have  recognized  the  importance  of  the  suggestive  power  of 
words.  Half  the  power  of  propaganda  lies  in  its  arousing  of 
emotions  through  suggestion,  rather  than  in  its  effectiveness 
as  an  instrument  of  intellectual  conversion.' 

Language  and  logic.     Even  where  words  are  freed  from 

>  Wallas:  Human  Nature  in  Politics,  p.  92.  »  Ibid.,  p.  93. 

1  During  the  recent  Liberty  Loan  campaigns,  for  example,  when  it  was  of 
the  most  crucial  practical  importance  that  bonds  be  bought,  the  stimuli  used 
were  not  in  the  form  of  reasoned  briefs,  but  rather  emotional  admonition : 
"  Finish  the  job,"  "  Every  miser  helps  the  Kaiser,"  "  If  you  were  out  in 
No  Man's  Land." 


240  HUMAN  TRAITS 

irrelevant  emotional  associations,  they  are  still  far  from  being 
adequate  instruments  of  thought.  To  be  effectively  repre- 
sentative, words  must  be  clean-cut  and  definitive;  they  must 
stand  for  one  object,  quality,  or  idea.  Words,  if  they  are  to 
be  genuine  instruments  of  communication,  must  convey  the 
same  intent  or  meaning  to  the  listener  as  they  do  to  the 
speaker.  If  the  significance  attached  to  words  is  so  vague 
and  pulpy  that  they  mean  different  things  to  different  men, 
they  are  no  more  useful  in  inquiry  and  communication  than 
the  shock  of  random  noise  or  the  vague  stir  and  flutter  of 
music.  Words  must  have  their  boundaries  fixed,  they  must 
be  terms,  fixed  and  stable  meanings,  or  they  will  remain  instru- 
ments of  confusion  rather  than  communication.  Francis 
Bacon  stated  succinctly  the  dangers  involved  in  the  use  of 
words: 

For  men  imagine  that  their  reason  governs  words,  whilst  in  fact 
words  react  upon  the  understanding;  and  this  has  rendered  phi- 
losophy and  the  sciences  sophistical  and  inactive.  Words  are  gen- 
erally formed  in  a  popular  sense,  and  define  things  by  those  broad 
lines  which  are  most  obvious  to  the  vulgar  mind;  but  when  a  more 
acute  understanding  or  more  diligent  observation  is  anxious  to  vary 
these  lines,  and  adapt  them  more  accurately  to  nature,  words  oppose 
it.  Hence  the  great  and  solemn  disputes  of  learned  men  terminate 
frequently  in  mere  disputes  about  words  and  names,  in  regard  to 
which  it  would  be  better  to  proceed  more  advisedly  in  the  first 
instance,  and  to  bring  such  disputes  to  a  regular  issue  by  definitions. 
Such  definitions,  however,  cannot  remedy  the  evil ...  for  they  con- 
sist themselves  of  words,  and  these  words  produce  others. . . . 

If,  to  take  an  extreme  case,  a  speaker  said  the  word  "chair," 
and  by  "chair"  his  listener  understood  what  we  commonly 
mean  by  the  word  "table,"  communication  would  be  impos- 
sible. There  must  be  some  common  agreement  in  the  words 
used.  In  the  case  of  simple  terms  referring  to  concrete  ob- 
jects there  are  continual  concrete  reminders  of  the  meaning 
of  a  word.  We  do  not  make  mistakes  as  to  the  meaning  of 
words  such  as  chair,  river,  stone,  stove,  books,  forks,  knives, 

1  Novum  Organum,  bk.  i,  aphorism  59. 


LANGUAGE  AND  COMMUNICATION        241 

because  we  so  continually  meet  and  use  them.  We  are  con- 
tinually checked  up,  and  the  meanings  we  attach  to  these 
cannot  go  far  astray. 

But  the  further  terms  are  removed  from  physical  objects, 
the  more  opportunity  is  there  for  ambiguity.  In  the  realm  of 
politics  and  morals,  as  Socrates  was  fond  of  pointing  out,  the 
chief  difficulties  and  misunderstandings  of  men  have  come 
from  the  ambiguities  of  the  terms  they  use.  "Justice,"  " lib- 
erty," "democracy,"  "good,"  "true,"  "beautiful,"  these 
have  been  immemorial  bones  of  contention  among  philoso- 
phers. They  are  accepted,  taken  for  granted,  without  any 
question  as  to  their  meaning  by  the  individual,  until  he  finds, 
perhaps,  in  discussion  that  his  acceptation  of  the  term  is 
entirely  different  from  that  of  his  opponent.  Thus  many  an 
argument  ends  with  "if  that's  what  you  mean,  I  agree  with 
you."  Intellectual  inquiry  and  discussion  to  be  fruitful  must 
have  certain  definitive  terms  to  start  with. 

Discussion  .  . .  needs  to  have  the  ground  or  basis  of  its  various 
component  statements  brought  to  consciousness  in  such  a  way  as  to 
define  the  exact  value  of  each.  The  Socratic  contention  is  the  need 
compelling  the  common  denominator,  the  common  subject,  under- 
lying the  diversity  of  views  to  exhibit  itself.  It  alone  gives  a  sure 
standard  by  which  the  claims  of  all  assertions  may  be  measured. 
Until  this  need  is  met,  discussion  is  a  self-deceiving  play  with  un- 
judged,  unexamined  matters,  which,  confused  and  shifting,  impose 
themselves  upon  us.1 

To  define  our  terms  means  literally  to  know  what  we  are 
talking  about  and  what  others  are  talking  about.  One  of  the 
values  of  discussion  is  that  it  enables  us  more  clearly  to  realize 
the  meaning  of  the  words  with  which  we  constantly  operate. 
A  man  may  entertain  for  a  long  while  a  half-conscious  defini- 
tion of  democracy  as  meaning  political  equality,  and  suddenly 
come  face  to  face  with  another  who  means  by  it  industrial 
cooperation  and  participation  on  the  part  of  all  workers. 
Whether  he  agrees  with  the  new  definition  or  not,  at  least  his 
own  becomes  clearer  by  contrast. 

>  Dew<tv:  Essays  in  Experimental  Logic,  p.  200. 


242  HUMAN  TRAITS 

"Science,"  wrote  Condillac,  "is  a  well-made  language." 
No  small  part  of  the  technique  of  science  lies  in  its  clear  defini- 
tion of  its  terms.  The  chemist  knows  what  he  means  by  an 
"acid,"  the  biologist  by  a  "mammal."  Under  these  names 
he  classifies  all  objects  having  certain  determinable  properties. 
Social  science  will  never  attain  the  precision  of  the  physical 
sciences  until  it  also  attains  as  clear  and  unambiguous  a  ter- 
minology. As  we  shall  see  in  the  chapter  on  science,  however, 
the  definitions  in  the  physical  sciences  are  arrived  at  through 
precise  inquiries  not  yet  possible  in  the  field  of  social  phe- 
nomena. 


CHAPTER  XI 
RACIAL  AND  CULTURAL  CONTINUITY 

THAT  the  history  of  the  race  is  an  unbroken  continuum  goes 
without  saying.  What  this  means  in  the  way  of  transmission 
of  the  arts,  the  sciences,  the  religion,  the  ideas,  the  customs  of 
one  generation  to  the  next,  we  shall  presently  see.  Cultural 
continuity  is  made  possible  by  the  more  fundamental  fact  of 
the  actual  biological  continuity  of  the  race.  This  biological 
continuity  extends  back,  as  far  as  we  can  infer  from  the  sci- 
entific evidence,  unbrokenly  through  the  half  million  years 
since  man  has  left  traces  of  his  presence  on  earth.  The  con- 
tinuity of  life  itself  goes  back  to  that  still  more  remote  time 
when  man  and  ape  were  indistinguishable,  indeed  to  that 
postulated  epoch  when  life  as  it  existed  on  earth  was  no  more 
complex  than  it  is  as  it  now  appears  in  the  one-celled  animal. 
Evolution  has  taught  us  that  life,  however  it  started,  has  been 
one  long  continuous  process  which  has  increased  in  complex- 
ity from  the  unicellular  animals  to  man. 

The  continuity  of  the  human  race  is  a  contrivance  of  nature 
rather  than  of  man.  It  is,  as  it  were,  a  by-product  of  the  sex 
instinct.  Man  is  endowed  natively  with  a  powerful  desire  for 
sex  gratification,  and  though  offspring  are  the  chief  utility  of 
this  instinct,  desire  for  reproduction  is  not  normally  its  pri- 
mary stimulus.  But  while  the  production  of  offspring  may 
thus  be  said  to  be  an  incidental  result  of  the  sex  instinct,  hu- 
man reproduction  may  be  subjected  to  rational  consideration 
and  control,  according  as  offspring  are  or  are  not  considered 
desirable. 

The  sense  of  the  desirability  of  offspring  may,  in  the  first 
place,  be  determined  by  social  rather  than  individual  consid- 
erations. To  the  group  or  the  state  a  large  birth-rate,  a 
steady  increase  of  the  number  of  births  over  the  number  of 


244  HUMAN  TRAITS 

deaths,  may  be  made  desirable  by  the  need  of  a  large  popu- 
lation for  agriculture,  herding,  or  war.  In  primitive  tribes, 
superiority  in  numbers  must  have  been,  under  conditions  of 
competitive  warfare,  a  pronounced  asset.  In  any  imperialis- 
tic regime,  where  military  conquest  is  highly  regarded,  the 
maintenance  and  replenishment  of  large  armies  is  a  factor  that 
has  entered  into  reflection  on  the  question  of  population. 

In  cases  where  a  small  ruling  class  is  benefited  by  the  labor 
of  a  slave  or  serf  class,  there  is,  at  least  for  the  ruling  classes, 
a  marked  utility  in  the  increase  in  population.  It  means  just 
so  much  opportunity  for  increase  of  wealth  on  the  part  of 
landowning  and  slaveholding  or  serf-controlling  classes.  In 
any  country,  increase  in  the  labor  supply  means  just  so  much 
more  human  energy  for  the  control  of  natural  resources,  so 
many  more  units  of  energy  for  the  production  of  national 
wealth. 

Offspring  may  come  to  be  reflectively  desired  by  the  indi- 
vidual as  a  means  of  perpetuating  property,  family,  or  fame. 
A  man  cannot  nonchalantly  face  the  prospect  of  obliteration, 
and  the  biological  fact  of  death  may  be  circumvented  by  the 
equally  real  fact  of  reproduction.  A  man's  individuality,  we 
have  already  had  occasion  to  see,  is  enhanced  by  his  posses- 
sions, and  if  his  fortune  or  estate  is  handed  down  he  shall  not 
altogether  have  been  obliterated  from  the  earth.  Similarly, 
where  a  family  has  become  a  great  tradition,  there  may  be  a 
deliberate  desire  on  the  part  of  an  individual  to  have  the 
name  and  tradition  carried  on,  to  keep  the  old  lineage  current 
and  conspicuous  among  men.  A  man  may  think  through  his 
children  to  keep  his  own  fame  alive  in  posterity.  At  least  his 
name  shall  be  known,  and  if,  as  so  often  happens,  a  son  fol- 
lows in  his  father's  profession,  carries  on  his  father's  business, 
farm,  or  philanthropies,  the  individual  attains  at  least  some 
measure  of  vicarious  immortality.  His  own  ways,  habits, 
traditions  are  carried  on. 

A  man  may,  moreover,  come  to  desire  offspring  for  the 
pleasures  and  responsibilities  of  domesticity  and  parenthood. 


RACIAL  AND  CULTURAL  CONTINUITY     245 

There  is  a  parental  instinct  as  such,  certainly  very  strong  in 
most  women,  and  not  lacking  to  some  degree  in  most  men. 
The  joys  of  caring  for  and  rearing  a  child  have  too  often  been 
celebrated  in  literature  and  in  life  by  parents  both  young  and 
old  to  need  more  explicit  statement  here. 

Restriction  of  population.  But  reproduction  has  been  in 
human  history  promiscuous,  and  increase  of  population  has 
been  less  a  problem  to  moralists  and  economists  than  has  its 
restriction.  The  danger  of  over-increase  in  population  was 
first  powerfully  stated  by  Malthus  in  his  Essay  on  Population. 
Malthus  contended  in  effect  that  population  always  tends  to 
increase  up  to  the  limit  of  subsistence,  and  gives  indications, 
unless  increase  is  checked,  of  increasing  beyond  it.  In  its 
extreme  form,  as  it  appeared  in  Malthus's  first  edition  of  his 
Essay,  it  ran  somewhat  as  follows: 

As  things  are  now,  there  is  a  perpetual  pressure  by  population  on 
the  sources  of  food.  Vice  and  misery  cut  down  the  number  of  men 
when  they  grow  beyond  the  food.  The  increase  of  men  is  rapid  and 
easy ;  the  increase  of  food  is  in  comparison,  slow,  and  toilsome.  They 
are  to  each  other  as  a  geometrical  increase  to  an  arithmetical;  in 
North  America,  the  population  double  their  number  in  twenty  years.1 

Malthus's  pessimistic  prophecy  of  the  increase  of  popula- 
tion beyond  the  means  of  subsistence  has  been  subjected  to 
refutation  by  various  causes.  For  one  thing,  among  civilized 
races  at  least,  the  birth-rate  is  declining.  Again,  intensive 
agriculture  has  vastly  increased  the  possibilities  of  our  natural 
resources.  On  this  point,  writes  Kropotkin,  who  is  better 
acquainted  with  agricultural  conditions  than  are  most  social 
reformers: 

They  [market  gardeners]  have  created  a  totally  new  agriculture. 
They  smile  when  we  boast  about  the  rotation  system  having  per- 
mitted us  to  take  from  the  field  one  crop  every  year,  or  four  crops 
each  three  years,  because  their  ambition  is  to  have  six  and  nine  crop? 
from  the  very  same  plot  of  land  during  the  twelve  months.  Thej 
do  not  understand  our  talk  about  good  and  bad  soils,  because  they 
make  the  soils  themselves,  and  make  it  in  such  quantities  as  to  be 

>  Bonar :  Philosophy  and  Political  Economy  in  their  Historic  Relations,  p.  205. 


246  HUMAN  TRAITS  , 

compelled  yearly  to  seed  some  of  it;  otherwise  it  would  raise  up  the 
levels  of  their  gardens  by  half  an  inch,  every  year.  They  aim  at 
cropping,  not  five  or  six  tons  of  grass  on  the  acre  as  we  do,  but  from 
fifty  to  one  hundred  tons  of  various  vegetables  on  the  same  space; 
not  51  pounds  worth  of  hay,  but  100  pounds  worth  of  vegetables  of 
the  plainest  description,  cabbages  and  carrots.1 

Of  intensive  industry  the  same  might  be  said.  Where  for- 
merly a  man  could  produce  only  enough  for  one  man's  con- 
sumption, under  conditions  of  machine  production  one  man's 
work  can  supply  quantities  sufficient  for  many.  With  a  de- 
clining  birth-rate  and  the  vastly  increased  productivity  of 
industry  and  agriculture,  there  is  a  greatly  reduced  danger  of 
the  population  growing  beyond  their  possible  sustenance  by 
the  available  food  supply. 

Under  certain  economic  and  social  conditions  there  are 
marked  variations  in  the  birth-rate.  This  may  be  due  to 
various  causes  which  are,  by  different  writers,  variously 
assigned.  The  variation  of  the  birth-rate  among  different 
classes  is  again  a  matter  of  common  observation  and  statisti- 
cal certainty.  Higher  standards  of  living  are  found  regularly 
to  be  correlated  with  a  decrease  in  the  number  of  children  in 
a  family.  An  important  factor  in  the  voluntary  restriction  of 
population  is  the  desire  to  give  children  that  are  brought 
into  the  world  adequate  education,  environment,  and  social 
opportunity. 

Cultural  continuity.  To  the  very  young  the  world  seems  an 
unprecedented  novelty.  It  seems  scarcely  older  than  their 
own  memories,  which  are  few  and  short,  and  their  own  experi- 
ence, which  is  necessarily  limited  and  confined.  Through 
education  our  experience  becomes  immeasurably  widened;  we 
can  vicariously  live  through  the  experiences  of  other  people 
through  hearing  or  reading,  and  can  acquire  the  racial  mem- 
ory which  goes  back  as  far  as  the  records  of  history,  or  an- 
thropological research.  As  we  grow  older  we  come  to  learn 
that  our  civilization  has  a  history;  that  our  present  has  a  past. 
1  Kropotkin:  Fields,  Factories,  and  Workshops,  p.  74. 


RACIAL  AND  CULTURAL  CONTINUITY     247 

This  past  extends  back  through  the  countless  aeons  before 
man  walked  upright.  The  past  of  human  life  on  earth  goes 
back  itself  over  nearly  half  a  million  years.  With  this  long 
past,  the  present  is  continuous,  being  as  it  were,  additional 
pages  in  process  of  being  written. 

The  physical  continuity  of  the  race  is  insured,  as  we  have 
just  seen,  by  a  mechanism,  which,  though  it  may  be  subjected 
to  rational  consideration,  is  instinctive  in  its  operation.  The 
human  beings  that  people  the  earth  to-day  are  offspring  of 
human  ancestors  reaching  back  to  the  appearance  of  the 
human  animal  in  the  long  process  of  the  evolution  of  life  on 
earth.  So  far  as  we  can  see,  posterity  will  be  for  countless 
generations  physically  similar  to  ourselves,  as  they  certainly 
will,  unless  all  records  or  evidences  of  the  fact  are  obscured, 
trace  their  ancestry  continuously  back  to  us. 

Not  only  is  there  continuity  of  physical  descent,  however, 
but  continuity  of  cultural  achievement.  The  past,  in  any 
literal  temporal  sense,  is  over  and  done  with.  The  Romans 
are  physically  dead,  as  are  the  generations  of  barbarians  of 
the  Dark  Ages,  and  all  the  inhabitants  of  mediaeval  and 
modern  Europe,  save  our  own  contemporaries.  Yesterdays 
are  irrevocably  over.  The  past,  in  any  real  sense,  exists 
only  in  the  form  of  achievements  that  have  been  handed  down 
to  us  from  previous  generations.  The  only  parts  of  the  past 
that  survive  physically  are  the  actual  material  products  and 
achievements  of  bygone  generations,  the  temples  and  the 
cathedrals,  the  sculptures  and  the  manuscripts,  the  roads 
and  the  relics  of  earlier  civilizations.  Even  these  exist  in  the 
present;  they  are  evidences,  memorials,  mementos  of  the 
past.  These  heritages  from  past  civilizations  may  be  inter- 
esting, intrinsically,  as  in  the  case  of  paintings  and  statues,  or 
useful,  as  in  the  case  of  roads,  reservoirs,  or  harbors. 

But  we  inherit  the  past  in  a  more  vital  sense.  We  inherit 
ways  of  thought  and  action,  social  systems,  scientific  and  in- 
dustrial methods,  manners  and  morals,  educational  bequests 
and  ideals,  all  that  we  have  and  are.  Without  these,  each 


248  ,  HUMAN  TRAITS 

generation  would  have  to  start  anew.  If  the  whole  of  existing 
society  were  destroyed,  and  a  newborn  generation  could  be 
miraculously  preserved  to  maturity,  its  members  would  have 
to  start  on  the  same  level,  with  the  same  ignorances,  uncer- 
tainties, and  impotences  as  primitive  savages. 

In  order  to  make  the  nature  and  variety  of  our  abject  dependence 
on  the  past  clear,  we  have  only  to  consider  our  language,  our  laws, 
our  political  and  social  institutions,  our  knowledge  and  education, 
our  view  of  this  world  and  the  next,  our  tastes  and  the  means  of 
gratifying  them.  On  every  hand  the  past  dominates  and  controls 
us,  for  the  most  part  unconsciously  and  without  protest  on  our  part. 
We  are  in  the  main  its  willing  adherents.  The  imagination  of  the 
most  radically-minded  cannot  transcend  any  great  part  of  the  ideas 
and  customs  transmitted  to  him.  When  once  we  grasp  this  truth, 
we  shall,  according  to  our  mood,  humbly  congratulate  ourselves 
that ...  we  are  permitted  to  stand  on  the  giant's  shoulders,  and 
enjoy  an  outlook  that  would  be  quite  hidden  to  us,  if  we  had  to  trust 
to  our  own  short  legs;  or  we  may  resentfully  chafe  at  our  bonds  and, 
like  Prometheus,  vainly  strive  to  wrest  ourselves  from  the  rock  of  the 
past,  in  our  eagerness  to  bring  relief  to  the  suffering  children  of  men. 

In  any  case,  whether  we  bless  or  curse  the  past,  we  are  inevitably 
its  offspring,  and  it  makes  us  its  own  long  before  we  realize  it.  It  is, 
indeed,  almost  all  that  we  can  have.1 

The  cultural  achievements  of  the  past,  which  we  inherit 
chiefly  as  social  habits,  are  obviously  not  transmitted  to  us 
physically,  as  are  the  original  human  traits  with  which  this 
volume  has  so  far  been  chiefly  concerned.  They  are  not  in  our 
blood;  they  are  acquired  like  other  habits,  through  contact 
with  others  and  through  repeated  practice. 

We  are  thus  to  a  very  large  extent  conditioned  by  the  past. 
It  is  as  if  we  had  inherited  a  fortune  composed  of  various  kinds 
of  properties,  houses,  books,  automobiles,  warehouses,  mu- 
sical instruments,  and  in  addition,  trade  concessions,  business 
secrets,  formulaBS,  methods,  and  good-will.  Our  activities  will 
be  limited  in  measure  by  the  extent  of  the  property,  its  con- 
stituent items,  and  the  repair  in  which  we  keep  it.  We  may 
squander  or  misinvest  our  principal,  as  when  we  use  scientifii 

1  Robinson :  The  New  History,  pp.  2S&-57. 


RACIAL  AND  CULTURAL  CONTINUITY     249 

knowledge  for  dangerous  or  dubious  aims,  for  example,  for 
conquest  or  rapine.  We  may  add  to  it,  as  in  the  development 
of  the  sciences  and  industrial  arts.  We  may,  so  to  speak,  live 
on  the  income.  Such  is  the  case  when  a  society  ceases  to  be 
progressive,  and  fails  to  add  anything  to  a  highly  developed 
traditional  culture,  as  happened  strikingly  in  the  case  of 
China.  Again  we  may  have  inherited  "  white  elephants," 
which  may  be  of  absolutely  no  use  to  us,  encumbrances  of 
which  we  cannot  easily  rid  ourselves,  influential  ideas  which 
are  no  longer  adequate  to  our  present  situation,  obsolete 
emotions,  methods,  or  institutions.  We  may  allow  our  cultural 
inheritance,  through  bad  education,  to  fall  into  disrepair  and 
decay. 

Since  we  are  so  dependent  on  the  past,  our  attitude  toward 
it,  which  in  turn  determines  the  use  we  make  of  it,  is  of  the  most 
crucial  significance.  The  several  characteristic  and  varying 
attitudes  toward  the  past  which  are  so  markedly  current  are 
not  determined  solely  by  logical  considerations.  For  individ- 
uals and  social  groups  particular  features  of  their  heritage  have 
great  emotional  associations.  The  living  past  is  composed  of 
habits,  traditions,  values,  which  are  vivid  and  vital  issues  to 
those  who  practice  them.  Traditions,  customs,  or  social 
methods  come  to  have  intrinsic  values;  they  become  the  cen- 
ter of  deep  attachments  and  strong  passion.  They  are  a  rich 
element  of  the  atmosphere  of  the  present;  they  are  woven  into 
the  intimate  fabric  of  our  lives.  The  awe  which  we  feel  in 
great  cathedrals  is  historical  as  well  as  religious.  Those  vast 
solemn  arches  are  the  voices  of  the  past  speaking  to  us.  The 
moral  appeal  of  tradition  appears  with  beautiful  clarity  in  the 
opening  chapter  of  Pater's  Marius  the  Epicurean. 

A  sense  of  conscious  powers  external  to  ourselves,  pleased  or  dis- 
pleased by  the  right  or  wrong  conduct  of  every  circumstance  of  daily 
life  —  that  conscience,  of  which  the  old  Roman  religion  was  a  formal, 
habitual  recognition,  had  become  in  him  a  powerful  current  of  feeling 
and  observance.  The  old-fashioned,  partly  Puritanic  awe,  the  power 
01  which  Wordsworth  noted  and  valued  so  highly  in  a  northern 


250  HUMAN  TRAITS 

peasantry,  had  its  counterpart  in  the  feeling  of  the  Roman  lad,  a  she 
passed  the  spot,  "touched  of  heaven,"  where  the  lightning  had 
struck  dead  an  aged  laborer  in  the  field:  an  upright  stone,  still  with 
moldering  garlands  about  it,  marked  the  place.  He  brought  to  that 
system  of  symbolic  usages,  and  they  in  turn  developed  hi  him  further, 
a  great  seriousness,  an  impressibility  to  the  sacredness  of  tune,  of  life 
and  its  events,  and  the  circumstances  of  family  fellowship  —  of  such 
gifts  to  men  as  fire,  water,  the  earth  from  labor  on  which  they  live, 
really  understood  by  him  as  gifts  —  a  sense  of  religious  responsibility 
in  the  reception  of  them.  It  was  a  religion  for  the  most  part  of  fear, 
of  multitudinous  scruples,  of  a  year-long  burden  of  forms.1 

To  the  past,  as  it  is  made  familiar  to  us  through  song,  study, 
and  traditional  practice,  we  may  experience  a  piety  amount- 
ing almost  to  religious  devotion.  In  some  individuals  and  in 
some  nations,  this  sense  for  tradition  is  very  strong. 

Every  one  has  felt  more  or  less  keenly  this  sense  of  being  a 
link  in  a  great  tradition,  whether  of  a  college,  family,  or  coun- 
try. Sometimes  this  sense  for  tradition  takes  an  aesthetic  form, 
as  in  the  case  of  ritual,  whether  social  or  religious.  Old  streets, 
ivied  towers,  ancient  rooms,  become  symbols  of  great  and 
dignified  achievements;  ceremonies  come  to  be  invested  with 
a  serious  beauty  and  memorable  charm.  They  become  re- 
minders of  a  "torch  to  be  carried  on,"  of  a  spirit  to  be  cher- 
ished and  kept  alive,  of  a  history  to  be  carried  on  or  a  purpose 
or  an  ideal  to  be  fulfilled.  As  we  shall  see  in  a  moment,  this 
sense  for  the  past,  which,  as  Santayana  says,  makes  a  man 
loyal  to  the  sources  of  his  being,  has  both  its  virtues  and  vices. 
It  is  of  immense  value  in  preserving  continuity  and  cultural 
integration,  in  keeping  many  men  continuously  moving  to- 
ward a  single  fixed  end.  It  may  also  wrap  dangerously  ir- 
relevant habits  and  institutions  in  a  saving  —  and  illusive  — 
halo. 

There  are,  on  the  other  hand,  individuals  with  very  little 
sense  for  tradition.  This  may  be  accounted  for  in  some  cases 
by  a  marked  aesthetic  insensibility,  which  sees  in  ritual,  cere- 
mony, or  habit,  merely  the  literal,  without  any  appreciation 

» Walter  Pater:  Marina  the  Epicurean  (A .  L.  Burt  edition),  pp.  3-4. 


RACIAL  AND  CULTURAL  CONTINUITY     251 

at  all  of  its  symbolic  significance.1  In  other  cases,  individ- 
uals are  unsusceptible  and  hostile  to  tradition,  because  they 
have  themselves  been  socially  disinherited.  This  is  illustrated 
not  infrequently  in  the  case  of  foreigners  who,  for  one  reason 
or  another,  have  left  and  lost  interest  in  their  native  land,  and 
become  men  without  a  country. 

There  are  others  by  temperament  rebellious  and  iconoclas- 
tic, who  combine  a  keen  sense  of  present  difficulties  and  prob- 
lems with  small  reverence,  use  for,  or  interest  in  the  past,  and 
small  imaginative  sympathy  with  it.  The  past  is  to  them  a 
"sea  of  errors."  They  regard  all  past  achievements  as  bad 
ecribblings  which  must  be  erased,  so  that  we  may  start  with 
a  clean  slate.  There  have  been  included  among  such,  great 
historical  reformers.  Bentham's  enthusiasm  for  progress  led 
him  into  most  intemperate  attacks  on  history  and  historical 
method.  The  most  noted  of  the  eighteenth-century  philoso- 
phers saw  nothing  but  evil  in  tradition.  Such  sentiments 
were  echoed  in  the  early  nineteenth  century  by  Shelley,  God- 
win, and  their  circle,  as  expressed,  for  example,  in  Shelley's 
"Hellas": 

"The  world's  great  age  begins  anew, 

The  golden  years  return, 
The  earth  doth  like  a  snake  renew 

Her  winter  weeds  outworn; 
Heaven  smiles,  and  faiths  and  empires  gleam, 
Like  wrecks  of  a  dissolving  dream. 


"Another  Athens  shall  arise, 

And  to  remoter  time 
Bequeath,  like  sunset  to  the  skies, 

The  splendor  of  ita  prime; 
And  leave,  if  nought  so  bright  can  live, 
All  earth  can  take  or  Heaven  can  give." 

It  is  not  surprising  that  men  with  an  eye  fixed  on  the  future 

1  This  is  illustrated  by  the  crass  excesses  of  certain  radical  satirists  of  reli- 
gious forms.  Those  who  are  the  enemies  of  religion  for  economic,  social,  or 
intcllectualistic  reasons  combine  a  singular  sense  of  the  literal  absurdities  of 
religious  forms  with  a  marked  insensibility  to  their  symbolic  valises.  One 
may  find  interesting  examples,  from  Voltaire  to  Robert  Ingersoll. 


252  HUMAN  TRAITS 

should  develop  a  contempt  or  an  obliviousness  of  the  past. 
Utopians  nearly  always  start  with  "a  world  various  and  beau- 
tiful and  new." 

Perhaps  the  chief  ingredient  in  such  discounting  of  all  past 
history  is  the  rebel  temperament  which  wants  to  break  away 
from  what  it  regards  as  the  chains,  the  dead  weight,  the  ruts  of 
tradition.  It  cheerfully  says,  "Nous  changerons  tout  cela," 
and  does  not  stop  to  discriminate  between  the  roads  and  the 
ruts  that  have  been  made  by  people  in  the  past. 

These  two  temperaments,1  play  a  large  part  in  determining 
attitudes  toward  the  past.  The  one  regards  with  awe  and 
reverence  past  achievement,  and  rests  his  faith  on  the  experi- 
ments which  have  been  tested  and  proved  by  time.  The 
other,  to  state  the  position  extremely,  regards  each  day  as  the 
possible  glorious  dawn  of  a  completely  new  world.  The  first 
attitude,  when  intemperately  preached  and  practiced,  be- 
comes an  uncritical  veneration  of  the  past;  the  second,  an  un- 
critical disparagement.  We  shall  briefly  examine  each. 

Uncritical  veneration  of  the  past.  The  extreme  form  of  un- 
critical veneration  of  the  past  may  be  said  to  take  the  position 
that  old  things  are  good  simply  because  they  are  old;  new 
things  are  evil  simply  because  they  are  new.  Institutions, 
Ideas,  Customs  are,  like  wines,  supposed  to  attain  quality 
with  age.  A  custom,  a  law,  a  code  of  morals  is  defined  or 
maintained  on  the  ground  of  its  ancient  —  and  honorable  — 
history,  of  the  great  span  of  years  during  which  it  has  been 
current,  of  the  generation  after  generation  that  has  lived  un- 
der its  auspices.  The  ways  of  our  fathers,  the  old  time-tested 
ways,  these,  we  are  told,  must  be  our  ways. 

The  psychological  origins  of  this  position  have  in  part  been 
discussed.  There  is  in  some  individuals  a  highly  developed 

1  One  is  reminded  of  the  song  of  the  sentry  before  the  House  of  Parliament 
in  Gilbert  and  Sullivan's  "lolanthe": 

"  *T  is  strange  how  Nature  doth  contrive 

That  every  little  boy  or  gal, 
That's  born  into  the  world  alive, 
Is  either  a  little  Liberal, 
Or  else  a  little  Conservative! " 


RACIAL  AND  CULTURAL  CONTINUITY     253 

sentiment  and  reverence  for  tradition  as  such,  and  an  aesthetic 
sensibility  to  the  mellowness,  ripeness,  and  charm  that  so  often 
accompany  old  things.1  The  new  seems,  as  it  often  is,  loud, 
brassy,  vulgar,  and  hard.  But  there  are  other  and  equally 
important  causes.  Men  trust  and  cherish  the  familiar  in 
ideas,  customs,  and  social  organization,  just  as  they  trust  and 
cherish  old  friends.  They  know  what  to  expect  from  them; 
they  have  their  well-noted  excellences,  and,  while  they  have 
their  defects,  these  also  are  definitely  known  and  can  be  defi- 
nitely reckoned  with.  The  old  order  may  not  be  perfect,  but 
it  is  an  order,  and  an  order  whose  outlines  and  possibilities 
are  known  and  predictable.  Change  means  change  to  the 
unaccustomed  and  the  unfamiliar.  And  the  unaccustomed 
and  the  unfamiliar,  as  already  pointed  out,  normally  arouse 
fear.  One  of  the  conventional  phrases  (which  has  become 
conventional  because  it  is  accurate)  with  which  changes  have 
been  greeted  is  the  clich6,  "we  view  with  alarm."  No  small 
part  of  genuine  opposition  to  change  comes  from  the  cautious 
and  conscientious  types  of  mind  which  will  not  sanction  the 
reckless  taking  of  chances,  especially  where  the  interests  of 
large  groups  are  concerned,  which  want  to  know  precisely 
where  a  change  will  lead.  Such  a  mind  holds  off  from  com- 
mitting society  to  making  changes  that  will  put  a  situation 
beyond  control  and  lead  to  unforeseen  and  uncontrollable 
dangers.  Especially  is  this  felt  by  the  administrator,  by  the 
man  who  has  experience  with  the  difficulties  of  putting  ideas 
in  practice,  who  knows  how  vastly  more  difficult  it  is  to  oper- 
ate with  people  than  with  paper.2  The  man  of  affairs  knows 

1  "Oxford,"  said  a  distinguished  visitor  to  that  venerable  institution, 
"looks  just  as  it  ought  to  look."  And  one  is  reminded  of  the  story  of  the 
American  lady  who,  admiring  the  smooth  lawns  at  Oxford,  asked  a  gardenei 
how  they  managed  to  give  them  that  velvet  gloss.  "  We  roll  them,  madam,' 
he  said,  "for  eight  hundred  years." 

1  Thus  writes  Catharine  II,  in  a  letter  to  Diderot,  the  French  philosopher 
and  humanitarian:  "  M.  Diderot,  in  all  your  schemes  of  reform,  you  entirely 
forget  the  difference  in  our  position;  you  work  only  on  paper,  which  endures 
all  things;  it  offers  no  obstacle,  either  to  your  pen  or  your  imagination.  But 
I,  poor  Empress  that  I  am,  work  oa  a  far  more  delicate  and  irritable  sub* 
stance,  the  human  skin." 


S54  HUMAN  TRAITS 

how  easy  it  is  to  check  and  change  ideas  in  one's  mind,  but 
knows  also  the  uncontrollable  momentum  of  ideas  when  they 
are  acted  upon  by  vast  numbers  of  men. 

Again,  the  maintenance  of  ways  that  have  been  practiced 
in  the  past  has  a  large  hold  over  people,  for  reasons  already 
discussed  in  the  chapter  on  Habit.  The  old  and  the  accus- 
tomed are  comfortable  and  facile;  change  means  inconven- 
ience and  frustration  of  habitual  desires.  This  is  in  part 
the  explanation  of  the  increasing  conservatism  of  men  as 
they  grow  older.  Not  only  do  they  have  a  keener  sense  of 
the  difficulty  of  introducing  changes,  but  their  own  fixed 
habits  of  mind  and  emotion  make  part  of  the  difficulty. 
They  like  the  old  ways  and  persist  in  them  just  as  they  like 
and  keep  old  books,  old  friends,  and  old  shoes. 

Romantic  idealization  of  the  past.  Reverence  for  the  past 
may  also  be  due  to  a  romantic  idealization  of  it.  In  such 
cases,  it  is  not  an  interest  hi  maintaining  the  present  order; 
it  is  rather  a  contempt  for  the  present  and  wistful  yearning 
for  the  "good  old  days."  Every  one  indulges  more  or  less 
in  such  idealization.  Such  halos  are  made  possible  because 
we  retain  the  pleasant  rather  than  the  painful  and  dreary 
aspects  of  our  past  experience.  The  college  alumnus  return- 
ing to  the  campus  tells  of  the  since  unsurpassed  intellectual 
and  athletic  feats  of  the  freshman  class  of  which  he  was  a 
member.  The  elderly  gentleman  sighs  over  his  newspaper 
at  the  bad  ways  into  which  the  world  is  degenerating,  and 
yearns  for  the  old  days  when  the  plays  were  better,  con- 
versation more  interesting,  houses  more  comfortable,  and 
men  more  loyal.  In  similar  trivial  instances  we  are  all  in- 
clined to  indulge  in  such  mythology.  The  universality  and 
age  of  this  tendency  has  been  well  described  by  a  student  of 
Greek  civilization. 

This  is  the  belief  of  the  old  school  of  every  age  —  there  was  once  a 
"good"  time;  and  it  matters  not  at  all  in  the  study  of  moral  ideals 
that  no  such  time  can  be  shown  to  have  existed.  The  men  of  the 
fourth  century  [B.C.]  say  that  it  was  in  the  fifth;  those  of  the  fifth 


RACIAL  AND  CULTURAL  CONTINUITY     255 

say  it  was  in  the  sixth;  and  so  on  infinitely.  The  same  ideal  was  at 
work  when  William  Morris  looked  to  the  thirteenth  century,  forget- 
ting that  Dante  looked  to  a  still  earlier  period;  and  both  forgot  that 
the  men  of  that  earlier  period  said  the  same  —  "not  now,  indeed, 
but  before  us  men  were  happy."  So  simpler  men  incline  to  say  that 
then-  grandfathers  were  fine  fellows,  but  the  "old  college  is  going  to 
the  dogs,"  or  "the  House  of  Commons  is  not  what  it  was  once,"  for 
reverence  and  faith  and  manliness  once  ruled  the  world.  The  old 
school  lives  upon  an  ignorance  of  history;  it  is  genuinely  moved  by 
a  simple  moral  ideal  of  life  and  character  which  its  own  imagination 
has  created.  And  when  evil  becomes  obvious,  it  is  the  new-fangled 
notions  that  are  to  blame.  "Trying  new  dodges"  has  brought 
Athens  down  in  the  world  —  as  Aristophanes  in  393  B.C.  makes  his 
protagonist  say: 

"And  would  it  not  have  saved  the  Athenian  state, 
If  she  kept  to  what  was  good,  and  did  not  try 
Always  some  new  plan?"  l 

On  a  large  scale  the  romantic  idealization  of  the  past  has 
been  made  into  a  philosophy  of  history.  The  "golden  age," 
instead  of  being  put  in  a  roseate  and  remote  future,  is  put  in  an 
equally  remote  and  roseate  past.  The  Greek  legends  were 
fond  of  a  golden  age  when  the  gods  moved  among  men.  The 
Garden  of  Eden  is  the  Christian  apotheosis  of  the  world's 
perfections.  Various  philosophers  have  pointed  out  the 
fallacy  of  finding  such  a  mythological  locus  for  our  ideals,  and 
evolution  and  the  general  revelations  of  history  have  indicated 
the  completely  mythical  character  of  the  golden  age.  His- 
tory may,  in  general,  be  said  to  reveal  that,  whatever  the 
imperfections  of  our  own  age,  we  have  immeasurably  im- 
proved in  many  pronounced  respects  over  conditions  earlier 
than  our  own.  The  idealized  picture  of  the  Middle  Ages  with 
its  guardsmen  and  its  courtly  knights  and  ladies,  is  coming, 
with  increasing  historical  information,  to  seem  insignificant 
and  untrue  in  comparison  with  the  unspeakable  hardships  of 
the  mass  of  men,  the  evil  social  and  sanitary  conditions,  the 
plagues  and  pestilences  which  were  as  much  a  part  of  it.  The 
picture  of  the  ideally  gentle  and  benevolent  attitude  of  the 
*  C.  Delisle  Burns:  Greek  Ideals,  pp.  118-19. 


256  HUMAN  TRAITS 

master  to  his  slaves  is  by  no  means  regarded  as  a  typical  p!c» 
ture  of  conditions  of  slave  labor  in  the  South.  We  know, 
positively,  on  the  other  hand,  that  our  medicine  and  surgery, 
our  scientific  and  industrial  methods,  our  production  and  our 
resources  are  incomparably  greater  than  those  of  any  earlier 
period  in  history,  as  are  the  possibilities  of  the  control  of 
Nature  still  unrealized. 

If  there  were  time  I  might  try  to  show  that  progress  in  knowledge 
and  its  application  to  the  alleviation  of  man's  estate  is  more  rapid 
now  than  ever  before.  But  this  scarcely  needs  formal  proof;  it  is  so 
obvious.  A  few  years  ago  an  eminent  French  litterateur,  Brunetiere, 
declared  science  bankrupt.  This  was  on  the  eve  of  the  discoveries 
in  radio-activity  which  have  opened  up  great  vistas  of  possible  human 
readjustments  if  we  could  but  learn  to  control  and  utilize  the  inex- 
haustible sources  of  power  that  lie  in  the  atom.  It  was  on  the  eve 
of  the  discovery  of  the  function  of  the  white  blood  corpuscles,  which 
clears  the  way  for  indefinite  advance  in  medicine.  Only  a  poor  dis- 
couraged man  of  letters  could  think  for  a  moment  that  science  was 
bankrupt.  No  one  entitled  to  an  opinion  on  the  subject  believes 
that  we  have  made  more  than  a  beginning  in  penetrating  the  secrets 
of  the  organic  and  inorganic  worlds.1 

Even  hi  the  face  of  these  facts,  reverence  for  the  past  may 
amount  to  such  religious  veneration  that  change  may  come 
literally  to  be  regarded  as  sacrilegious.  In  primitive  tribes 
the  reasons  for  this  insistence  are  clear.  Rites  and  rituals  are 
used  to  secure  the  favor  of  the  gods  and  any  departure  from 
traditional  customs  is  looked  upon  as  fraught  with  actual  dan- 
ger. But  the  past,  as  it  lives  in  established  forms  and  prac- 
tices, is  still  by  many,  and  in  highly  advanced  societies,  al- 
most religiously  cherished,  sustained,  and  perpetuated.  Every 
college,  religion,  and  country  has  its  traditional  forms  of  life 
and  practice,  any  infringement  of  which  is  regarded  with  the 
gravest  disapproval.2  In  social  life,  generally,  there  are  fixed 
forms  for  given  occasions,  forms  of  address,  greeting,  conver- 
sation, and  clothes,  all  that  commonly  goes  under  the  name  of 

1  Robinson:  The  New  History,  p.  262. 

*  It  has  been  said  that  a  custom  repeated  on  a  college  campus  two  years  la 
succession  constitutes  a  tradition. 


RACIAL  AND  CULTURAL  CONTINUITY     257 

the  "  conventions  "  or  "  proprieties."  In  law,  as  is  well  known, 
there  is  developed  sometimes  to  an  almost  absurd  degree  a 
ritual  of  procedure.  In  religion,  traditional  values  become 
embodied  in  fixed  rituals  of  music,  processional,  and  prayer. 
In  education,  especially  higher  education,  there  has  developed 
a  fairly  stable  tradition  in  the  granting  of  degrees,  the  ele- 
ments of  a  curriculum,  the  forms  of  examination,  and  the 
like.  To  certain  types  of  mind,  fixed  forms  in  all  these  fields 
have  come  to  be  regarded  as  of  intrinsic  importance.  Love 
of  "  good  form,"  the  classicist  point  of  view  at  its  best,  may 
develop  into  sheer  pedantry  and  Pharisaism,  an  insistence  on 
the  fixed  form  when  the  intent  is  changed  or  forgotten,  a  re- 
gard for  the  letter  rather  than  the  spirit  of  the  law.  In  a  large 
number  of  cases,  the  fixed  modes  of  life  and  practice  which 
are  our  inheritance  come  to  be  regarded  as  symbols  of  eternal 
and  changeless  values.  Thus  many  highly  intelligent  men 
find  ritual  in  religion  and  traditional  customs  in  education 
or  in  social  life  freighted  with  symbolic  significance,  and  any 
infringement  of  them  as  almost  sacrilegious  in  character. 

Change  synonymous  with  evil.  Change,  again,  may  be  dis- 
couraged by  those  who  hold,  with  more  or  less  sincerity,  that 
no  good  can  come  of  it.  Such  a  position  may,  and  frequently 
is,  maintained  by  those  in  whom  fortunate  accident  of  birth, 
favored  social  position,  exuberant  optimism,  or  a  stanch  and 
resilient  faith,  induces  the  belief  that  the  social  order  and 
social  practices,  education,  law,  customs,  economic  condi- 
tions, science,  art,  et  al.,  are  completely  satisfactory.  Like 
*'ippa,  in  Browning's  poem,  they  are  satisfied  that  "God's 
in  His  Heaven;  all's  right  with  the  world."  That  there 
are  no  imperfections,  in  manners,  politics,  or  morals,  in 
our  present  social  order,  that  there  are  no  improvements 
which  good-will,  energy,  and  intelligence  can  effect,  few  will 
maintain  without  qualification.  To  do  so  implies,  when  sin- 
cere, extraordinary  blindness  to  the  facts,  for  example,  of 
poverty  and  disease,  which,  though  they  do  not  happen  to 
touch  a  particular  individual,  are  patent  and  ubiquitous 


258  HUMAN  TRAITS 

enough.  In  the  face  of  undeniable  evils  the  position  that  the 
ways  we  have  inherited  are  completely  adequate  to  our  con- 
temporary problems  cannot  be  ingenuously  maintained. 

The  position  more  generally  expounded  by  the  opponents  of 
change  is  that  OUT  present  modes  of  lif  e  give  us  the  best  possi- 
ble results,  considering  the  limitations  of  nature  and  human 
nature,  and  that  the  customs,  institutions,  and  ideas  we  now 
have  are  the  fruits  of  a  ripe,  a  mellow,  and  a  tune-tested  wis- 
dom, that  any  radical  innovations  would,  on  the  whole,  put 
us  in  a  worse  position  than  that  in  which  we  find  ourselves. 
Persons  taking  this  attitude  discount  every  suggested  im- 
provement on  the  ground  that,  even  though  intrinsically 
good,  it  will  bring  a  host  of  inevitable  evils  with  it,  and  that, 
all  things  considered,  we  had  better  leave  well  enough  alone. 
Some  extreme  exponents  of  this  doctrine  maintain,  as  did 
some  of  the  Hebrew  prophets,  that  whatever  evils  are  ours  are 
our  own  fault,  that  fault  consisting  in  a  lapse  from  the  accus- 
tomed ancient  ways.  To  continue  without  abatement  the 
established  ways  is  the  surest  road  to  happiness.  Education, 
social  customs,  political  organization,  these  are  sound  and 
wholesome  as  they  are;  and  modification  means  interference 
with  the  works  and  processes  of  reason. 

"All  Nature  is  but  art,  unknown  to  thee; 
All  chance,  direction,  which  thou  canst  not  see; 
All  discord,  harmony  not  understood; 
All  partial  evil,  universal  good; 
And  spite  of  pride,  in  erring  reason's  spite, 
One  truth  is  clear,  Whatever  is,  is  right."  * 

Later  Hegel  developed  an  elaborate  philosophy  of  history 
in  which  he  tried  to  demonstrate  that  the  history  of  the  past 
was  one  long  exemplification  of  reason;  that  each  event  that 
happened  was  part  of  the  great  cosmic  scheme,  an  indispensa- 
ble syllable  of  the  Divine  Idea  as  it  moved  through  history; 
each  action  part  of  the  increasing  purpose  that  runs  through 
the  ages.  That  these  contentions  are,  to  say  the  least,  ex- 

1  Pope:  Essay  on  Man,  epistle  i,  lines  289  ff. 


RACIAL  AND  CULTURAL  CONTINUITY     259 

trerae,  will  appear  presently  in  the  statement  of  the  opposite 
position  which  sees  nothing  in  the  past  but  a  long  succession 
of  blunders,  evils,  and  stupidities. 

"  Order  "  versus  change.  Finally,  genuine  opposition  to 
change  arises  from  those  who  fear  the  instability  which  it  im- 
plies. Continuation  in  established  ways  makes  for  integra- 
tion, discipline,  and  stability.  It  makes  possible  the  con- 
verging of  means  toward  an  end,  it  cumulates  efforts  resulting 
in  definite  achievement.  In  so  far  as  we  do  accomplish  any- 
thing of  significance,  we  must  move  along  stable  and  determi- 
nate lines;  we  must  be  able  to  count  on  the  future.1  It  has 
already  been  pointed  out  that  it  is  man's  docility  to  learning, 
his  long  period  of  infancy  2  which  makes  his  eventual  achieve- 
ments possible.  But  it  is  man's  persistence  in  the  habits 
he  has  acquired  that  is  in  part  responsible  for  his  progress. 
In  individual  life,  the  utility  of  persistence,  and  concentra- 
tion of  effort  upon  a  definite  piece  of  work,  have  been  suffi- 
ciently stressed  by  moralists,  both  popular  and  professional. 
"A  rolling  stone  gathers  no  moss,"  is  as  true  psychologi- 
cally as  it  is  physically.  Any  outstanding  accomplishment, 
whether  in  business,  scholarship,  science,  or  literature,  de- 
mands perseverance  in  definite  courses  of  action.  We  are 
inclined,  and  usually  with  reason,  to  suspect  the  effective- 
ness of  a  man  who  has  half  a  dozen  professions  in  half  as 
many  years.  Such  vacillations  produce  whimsical  and  scat- 
tered movements;  but  they  are  fruitless  in  results;  they  liter- 
ally "get  nowhere." 

Just  as,  in  the  case  of  individuals,  any  significant  achieve- 
ments require  persistent  convergence  of  means  toward  a  defi- 
nite end,  so  is  it  in  the  case  of  social  groups.  No  great  busi- 
ness organizations  are  built  up  through  continual  variations 
of  policy.  Similarly,  in  the  building  up  of  a  university,  a 
government  department,  a  state,  or  a  social  order,  consecutive 
and  disciplined  persistence  in  established  ways  is  a  requisite 
of  progress.  Without  such  continuous  organization  of  efforts 

1  The  uncertainty  that  business  men  feel  during  a  presidential  campaig  \ 
is  an  illustration.  *  See  ante,  p.  10. 


260  HUMAN  TRAITS 

toward  fixed  goals,  action  becomes  frivolous  and  fragmentary, 
a  wind  along  a  waste.  The  history  of  the  English  people  has 
elicited  the  admiration  of  philosophers  and  historians  because 
it  has  been  such  a  gradual  and  deliberate  movement,  such  a 
measured  and  certain  progress  toward  political  and  social 
freedom.  To  those  who  appreciate  the  value  of  unity  of 
action,  of  the  assured  fruits  of  cumulative  and  consistent 
action  along  a  given  path,  change  as  such  seems  fraught  with 
danger.  Nor  is  it  specific  dangers  they  fear  so  much  as  the 
loss  of  moral  fiber,  the  scattering  of  energies,  the  waste  and 
futility  that  are  frequently  the  net  result  of  casual  drif tings 
with  every  wind  that  blows.  No  one  has  more  eloquently 
expressed  this  view  than  Edmund  Burke  in  his  Reflections  on 
the  French  Revolution: 

But  one  of  the  first  and  most  leading  principles  on  which  the  com- 
monwealth and  the  laws  are  consecrated,  is  lest  the  temporary  pos- 
sessors and  life-renters  in  it,  unmindful  of  what  they  have  received 
from  their  ancestors,  or  of  what  is  due  to  their  posterity,  should  act 
as  if  they  were  the  entire  masters;  that  they  should  think  it  among 
their  rights  to  cut  off  the  entail,  or  commit  waste  on  the  inheritance, 
by  destroying  at  their  pleasure  the  whole  original  fabric  of  their 
society;  hazarding  to  leave  to  those  who  come  after  them  a  ruin 
instead  of  a  habitation  —  and  teaching  these  successors  as  little  to 
respect  their  contrivances,  as  they  had  themselves  respected  the 
institutions  of  their  forefathers.  By  this  unprincipled  facility  of 
changing  the  state  as  often,  and  as  much,  and  in  as  many  ways,  as 
there  are  floating  fancies  or  fashions,  the  whole  chain  and  continuity 
of  the  commonwealth  would  be  broken.  No  one  generation  could 
link  with  the  other.  Men  would  be  little  better  than  the  flies  of  e 
summer. 

.........«•• 

To  avoid,  therefore,  the  evils  of  inconstancy  and  versatility,  ten 
thousand  times  worse  than  those  of  obstinacy  and  the  blindest  preju- 
dice, we  have  consecrated  the  state,  that  no  man  should  approach 
to  look  into  its  defects  or  corruptions,  but  with  due  caution ;  that  he 
should  never  dream  of  beginning  its  reformation  by  its  subversion; 
that  he  should  approach  to  the  faults  of  the  state  as  to  the  wounds 
of  a  father,  with  pious  awe  and  trembling  solicitude.1 

*  Edmund  Burke-  Reflections  on  the  French  Revolution  (George  Bell  &  SOBS, 
1888),  pp.  366-68. 


RACIAL  AND  CULTURAL  CONTINUITY     261 

Personal  or  ckss  opposition  to  change.  Sincere  fear  of  the 
possible  evils  of  novelty  in  the  disorganization  which  it  pro- 
motes, habituation  to  established  ways,  or  a  sentimental  and 
aesthetic  allegiance  to  them  —  all  these  are  factors  that  deter- 
mine genuine  opposition  to  change.  But  aversion  to  change 
may  be  generalized  into  a  philosophical  attitude  by  those  who 
have  special  personal  or  class  reasons  for  disliking  specific 
changes.  The  hand-workers  hi  the  early  nineteenth  century 
stoned  the  machinists  and  machines  which  threw  them  out  of 
employment.  Every  change  does  discommode  some  class  or 
classes  of  persons,  and  part  of  the  opposition  to  specific 
changes  comes  from  those  whom  they  would  adversely  affect. 
It  is  not  surprising  that  liquor  interests  should  be  opposed  to 
prohibition,  that  theatrical  managers  should  have  protested 
against  a  tax  on  the  theater,  or  those  with  great  incomes 
against  an  excess  profits  tax.  Selfish  opposition  to  specific 
changes  is,  indeed,  frequently  veiled  in  the  disguise  of  plausi- 
ble reasons  for  opposition  to  change  in  general.  Those  who 
fear  the  results  to  their  own  personal  or  class  interests  of  some 
of  the  radical  social  legislation  of  our  own  day  may  disguise 
those  more  or  less  consciously  realized  motives  under  the  form 
of  impartial  philosophical  opposition  to  social  change  in  gen- 
eral. They  may  find  philosophical  justification  for  maintain- 
ing unmodified  an  established  order  which  redounds  to  their 
own  advantage. 

Uncritical  disparagement.  The  other  extreme  is  repre- 
sented by  the  position  that  old  things  are  bad  because  they 
are  old,  and  new  things  good  because  they  are  new.  This  is 
illustrated  in  an  extreme  though  trivial  form  by  faddists  of 
every  kind.  There  are  people  who  chiefly  pride  themselves 
on  being  up-to-the-minute,  and  exhibit  an  almost  pathological 
fear  of  being  behind  the  times.  This  thirst  for  the  novel  is 
seen  on  various  levels,  from  those  who  wear  the  newest  styles, 
and  dine  at  the  newest  hotels,  to  those  who  make  a  point  of 
reading  only  the  newest  books,  hearing  only  the  newest  music, 
and  discussing  the  latest  theories.  For  such  temperaments, 


262  HUMAN  TRAITS 

and  more  or  less  to  most  people,  there  is  an  intrinsic  glamour 
about  the  word  "new."  The  physical  qualities  that  are  so 
often  associated  with  newness  are  carried  over  into  social  and 
intellectual  matters,  where  they  do  not  so  completely  apply. 
The  new  is  bright  and  unf rayed;  it  has  not  yet  suffered  senil- 
ity and  decay.  The  new  is  smart  and  striking;  it  catches  the 
eye  and  \he  attention.  Just  as  old  things  are  dog-eared,  worn, 
and  tattered,  so  are  old  institutions,  habits,  and  ideas.  Just 
as  we  want  the  newest  books  and  phonographs,  the  latest 
conveniences  in  housing  and  sanitation,  so  we  want  the  lat- 
est modernities  in  political,  social,  and  intellectual  matters. 
Especially  about  new  ideas,  there  is  the  freshness  and  infinite 
possibility  of  youth;  every  new  idea  is  as  yet  an  unbroken 
promise.  It  has  not  been  subjected  to  the  frustrations,  dis- 
illusions, and  compromises  to  which  all  theory  is  subjected  in 
the  world  of  action.1  Every  new  idea  is  an  experiment,  a 
possibility,  a  hope.  It  may  be  the  long-awaited  miracle;  it 
may  be  the  prayed-for  solution  of  all  our  difficulties. 

This  susceptibility  to  the  novel  is  peculiarly  displayed  by 
those  who  see  nothing  but  evil  in  the  old.  Against  the  out- 
worn past  with  its  disillusions,  its  errors,  its  evils,  and  its 
hypocrisies,  the  new  shines  out  in  glorious  contrast.  There 
are  persons  who  combine  a  very  genuine  sense  of  present  evils 
with  a  resilient  belief  in  the  possibilities  of  change.  The 
classic  instance  of  this  is  seen  in  the  Messianic  idea.  Even  hi 
the  worst  of  times,  the  pious  Jew  could  count  on  the  saving 
appearance  of  the  Messiah.  Every  Utopian  is  as  sure  of  the 
salvation  promised  by  his  prize  solution  as  he  is  of  the  evils 
which  it  is  intended  to  rectify.  The  ardent  Socialist  may 

1  "Real  life  is,  to  most  men,  a  long  second-best,  a  perpetual  compromise 
between  the  ideal  and  the  possible;  but  the  world  of  pure  reason  knows  no 
compromise,  no  practical  limitations,  no  barrier  to  the  creative  activity  em- 
bodying in  splendid  edifices  the  passionate  aspiration  after  the  perfect  from 
which  all  great  work  springs.  Remote  from  human  passions,  remote  even 
from  the  pitiful  facts  of  nature,  the  generations  have  gradually  created  an 
ordered  cosmos,  where  pure  thought  can  dwell  as  in  its  natural  home,  and 
where  one,  at  least,  of  our  nobler  impulses  can  escape  from  the  dreary  exile 
of  the  actual  world."  (Bertrand  Russell:  Mysticism  and  Logic,  pp.  60-61.) 


RACIAL  AND  CULTURAL  CONTINUITY     £63 

equally  divide  his  energies  between  pointing  out  the  evils  of 
the  capitalist  system,  and  the  certain  bliss  of  his  Socialist 
republic.  The  past  is  nothing  but  a  festering  mass  of  evils; 
industry  is  nothing  but  slavery,  religion  nothing  but  supersti- 
tion, education  nothing  but  dead  traditional  formalism,  social 
life  nothing  but  hypocrisy. 

Where  the  past  is  so  darkly  conceived,  there  comes  an  un- 
critical welcoming  of  anything  new,  anything  that  will  take 
men  away  from  it.  Nothing  could  be  worse  than  the  present 
or  past;  anything  as  yet  untried  may  be  better.  As  Karl 
Marx  told  the  working  classes:  "The  proletarians  have 
nothing  to  lose  but  their  chains.  They  have  a  world  to  win." 

The  past  is,  by  its  ruthless  critics,  conceived  not  infre- 
quently as  enchaining  or  enslaving.  Particularly,  the  radical 
insists,  are  men  enslaved  by  habits  of  thought,  feeling,  and 
action  which  are  totally  inadequate  to  our  present  problems 
and  difficulties.  War-like  emotions,  he  points  out,  may  have 
been  useful  in  an  earlier  civilization,  but  are  now  a  total  dis- 
utility. Belief  in  magic  may  have  been  an  asset  to  primitive 
man  in  his  ignorance;  it  is  not  to  modern  man  with  his  science. 
The  institution  of  private  property  may  have  had  its  values 
in  building  up  civilization;  its  utility  is  over.  We  still  make 
stereotyped  and  archaic  reactions  where  the  situation  has 
utterly  changed.  The  institutions,  ideas,  and  habits  of  the 
past  are  at  once  so  compelling  and  so  obsolete  that  we  must 
make  a  clear  break  with  the  past;  we  must  start  with  a  clean 
slate.  To  continue,  so  we  are  told,  is  merely  going  further 
and  further  along  the  wrong  paths;  it  is  like  continuing  with 
a  broken  engine,  or  without  a  rudder. 

Critical  examination  of  the  past.  That  both  positions  just 
discussed  are  extreme,  goes  without  saying.  The  past  is 
neither  all  good  nor  all  bad;  it  has  achieved  as  well  as  it  has 
erred.  But  it  is,  in  any  case,  all  we  have.  Without  the 
knowledge,  the  customs,  the  institutions  we  have  inherited, 
we  should  have  no  advantage  at  all  over  our  ancestors  of  ten 
thousand  years  ago.  Biologically  we  have  not  changed.  The 


264  HUMAN  TRAITS 

past  is  our  basic  material.  Each  generation  starts  with 
what  it  finds  in  the  way  of  cultural  achievement,  and  builds 
upon  that. 

Antiquity  deserveth  that  reverence,  that  men  should  take  a  stand 
thereupon,  and  discover  what  is  the  best  way;  but  when  the  dis- 
covery is  well-taken,  then  to  make  progression.  And  to  speak  truly, 
antiquitas  sceculi  iuventus  mundi.  These  times  are  the  ancient  times, 
when  the  world  is  ancient,  and  not  those  which  we  account  ancient 
ordine  retrograde,  by  a  computation  backwards  from  ourselves.1 

The  past,  save  what  we  discover  in  our  generation,  is  our 
sole  storehouse  of  materials.  And  a  very  small  part  of  our 
useful  knowledge  in  the  industrial  arts,  in  science,  in  social 
organization  and  administration  does  come  from  our  own 
generation.  It  is  the  accumulated  experience  of  generations 
of  men.  We  can,  out  of  this  mass  of  materials,  select  what- 
ever is  useful  in  clarifying  the  issues  of  the  present,  whatever 
helps  us  to  accomplish  those  purposes  which  we  have,  after 
critical  consideration,  decided  to  be  useful  and  serviceable. 
If,  for  example,  we  decide  to  build  a  bridge,  it  is  of  importance 
that  we  know  all  that  men  have  in  the  past  discovered  of 
mechanical  relations  and  industrial  art  which  will  enable  us  to 
build  a  bridge  well.  If  we  want  to  establish  an  educational 
system  in  some  backward  portion  of  the  world,  it  is  useful  for 
us  to  know  what  methods  men  have  used  in  similar  situations. 
Whatever  we  decide  to  do,  we  are  so  much  the  better  off,  if 
we  know  all  that  men  before  us  have  learned  in  analogous 
instances. 

But  to  use  the  inheritance  of  the  past  implies  an  analysis 
of  present  problems,  and  an  acceptance  of  the  course  to  be 
pursued.  The  experience  of  the  past,  the  heritage  of  knowl- 
edge that  has  come  down  to  us,  is  so  various  and  extensive 
that  choices  must  be  made.  The  historian  in  writing  even 
a  comprehensive  history  of  a  country  must  still  make  choices 
and  omissions.  Similarly,  in  using  knowledge  inherited  from 
the  past  as  materials,  we  must  have  specific  problems  to 

1  Bacon:  The  Advancement  of  Learning,  Collected  Works,  vol.  i,  p  172. 


RACIAL  AND  CULTURAL  CONTINUITY     265 

govern  our  choice.  The  statistician  could  collect  innumerable 
statistics;  he  collects  only  those  which  have  a  bearing  on  his 
subject.  The  lawyer  searches  out  that  part  of  the  legal  tradi- 
tion which  is  applicable  to  his  own  case.  Without  some  lead 
or  clue  we  should  lose  ourselves  in  the  multifariousness  of 
transmitted  knowledge  at  our  disposal. 

To  use  the  past  as  an  instrument  for  furthering  present 
purposes  implies  neither  veneration  nor  disparagement  of  it. 
We  neither  condemn  nor  praise  the  past  as  a  whole;  we  regard 
specific  institutions,  customs,  or  ideas,  as  adequate  or  inade- 
quate, as  serviceable  or  disserviceable.  In  general,  it  may  be 
said  that  the  value  of  any  still  extant  part  of  the  past,  be  it  a 
work  of  art,  a  habit,  a  tradition,  has  very  little  to  do  with  its 
origin.  The  instinct  of  eating  is  still  useful  though  it  has  a 
long  history.  The  works  of  the  Old  Masters  are  not  really 
great  because  they  are  old,  nor  are  the  works  of  contempora- 
ries either  good  or  bad  because  they  are  new.  Man  himself  is 
to  be  estimated  no  differently,  whether  he  is  descended  from 
the  angels  or  the  apes. 

If  we  would  appreciate  our  own  morals  and  religion  we  are  often 
advised  to  consider  primitive  man  and  his  institutions.  If  we  would 
evaluate  marriage  or  property,  we  are  often  directed  to  study  our 
remote  ancestors.  .  .  .  Such  considerations  as  these  have  diverse 
effects  according  to  our  temperaments.  They  quite  uniformly  pro- 
duce, however,  disillusionment  and  sophistication.  . .  .  This  exalta- 
tion of  the  past,  as  the  ancestral  home  of  all  that  we  are,  may  make 
us  regret  our  loss  of  illusions  and  our  disconcerting  enlightenment. 
. . .  We  may  break  with  the  past,  scorn  an  inheritance  so  redolent  of 
blood  and  lust  and  superstition,  revel  in  an  emancipation  unguided 
by  the  discipline  of  centuries,  strive  to  create  a  new  world  every  day, 
and  imagine  that,  at  last,  we  have  begun  to  make  progress.1 

The  standards  of  value  of  the  things  we  have  or  do  or  say, 
the  approvals  or  disapprovals  we  should  logically  accord  them, 
are  determined  not  by  their  history,  not  by  their  past,  but  by 
their  uses  in  the  living  present  in  which  we  live.  An  institu- 
tion may  have  served  the  purposes  of  a  bygone  generation;  it 

»  Woodbridgc:  The  Purpose  of  Hitiory,  p.  72. 


266  HUMAN  TRAITS 

does  not  follow  that  it  thereby  serves  our  own.  The  reverse 
may  similarly  be  true.  For  us  the  specific  features  of  our 
social  inheritance  depend  upon  the  ends  or  purposes  which  we 
reflectively  decide  upon  and  accept.  Whether  capital  punish- 
ment is  good  or  evil;  whether  private  property  is  an  adequate 
or  inadequate  institution  for  social  welfare;  whether  marriage 
is  a  perfect  or  an  imperfect  institution;  whether  collective 
bargaining,  competitive  industry,  old  age  insurance,  income 
taxes,  nationalization  of  railroads  are  useful  or  pernicious 
depends  neither  on  their  age  nor  their  novelty.  Then*  value 
is  determined  by  their  relevancy  to  our  own  ideals,  by  the 
extent  to  which  they  hinder  or  promote  the  results  which  we 
consciously  desire. 

The  past  may  be  studied  with  a  view  to  clarifying  present 
issues.  In  the  first  place,  we  may  study  past  successes  and 
failures  in  order  to  guide  our  actions  in  present  similar  situa- 
tions. A  man  setting  out  to  organize  and  administer  a  news- 
paper will  benefit  by  the  experiences  others  have  had  in  the 
same  situation.  In  the  same  way,  we  can  learn  from  past 
history  something,  at  least,  bearing  on  present  political  and 
social  issues.  It  is  true  enough  that  history  has  been  much 
misused  for  the  drawing  of  lessons  and  guidance.  As  Pro- 
fessor Robinson  says: 

To-day,  however,  one  rarely  finds 'a  historical  student  who  would 
venture  to  recommend  statesmen,  warriors,  and  moralists  to  place 
any  confidence  whatsoever  in  historical  analogies  and  warnings,  for 
the  supposed  analogies  usually  prove  illusive  on  inspection,  and  the 
warnings  impertinent.  Whether  or  no  Napoleon  was  ever  able  in  his 
own  campaigns  to  make  any  practical  use  of  the  accounts  he  had 
read  of  those  of  Alexander  and  Crcsar,  it  is  quite  certain  that  Admiral 
Togo  would  have  derived  no  useful  hints  from  Nelson's  tactics  at 
Alexandria  or  Trafalgar.  Our  situation  is  so  novel  that  it  would 
seem  as  if  political  and  military  precedents  of  even  a  century  ago 
could  have  no  possible  value.  As  for  our  present "  anxious  morality," 
as  Maeterlinck  calls  it,  it  seems  equally  clear  that  the  sinful  extrava- 
gances of  Sardanapalus  and  Nero,  and  the  conspicuous  public  virtue 
of  Aristides  and  the  Horatii,  are  alike  impotent  to  promote  it.1 
1  Robinson :  The  New  History,  p.  36. 


RACIAL  AND  CULTURAL  CONTINUITY     267 

But  situations  are,  within  limits,  duplicated  in  historical 
processes,  and  it  is  illuminating  at  least  to  see  wherein  men 
failed  and  wherein  they  succeeded  in  the  things  they  set  them- 
selves to  do.  The  history  of  labor  legislation  certainly  testi- 
fies to  the  effectiveness  of  "collective  bargaining"  in  securing 
improved  labor  conditions,  as  the  history  of  strikes  does  also 
to  the  public  loss  and  injury  incident  to  this  kind  of  industrial 
warfare.  If  compulsory  arbitration  has  been  a  successful 
method  of  dealing  with  labor  difficulties  hi  Australia  in  the 
past,  we  can,  by  a  careful  study  and  comparison  of  conditions 
there  and  conditions  current  in  our  country  at  the  present, 
illuminate  and  clarify  our  own  problems.  A  campaign  man- 
ager in  one  presidential  campaign  does  not  forget  what  was 
effective  in  the  last,  nor  does  he  hesitate  to  profit  by  his  mis- 
takes or  those  of  others. 

An  impartial  survey  of  the  heritage  of  the  past  undertakes 
critically  to  examine  institutions,  customs,  ideas  still  current 
with  a  view  to  determining  their  relevancy  and  utility  to  our 
present  needs.  This  demands,  on  the  one  hand,  clarity  as  to 
what  those  needs  are,  and,  on  the  other  hand,  freedom  from 
prejudice  for  or  against  existing  modes  of  life  simply  because 
they  have  a  history.  A  critical  examination  of  the  past 
amounts  practically  to  a  taking  stock,  a  summary  of  our 
social  assets  and  liabilities.  We  shall  find  our  ideas,  for  ex- 
ample, and  our  customs,  a  strange  mixture  of  useful  preserva- 
tions, and  absurd  or  positively  harmful  relics  of  the  past. 
Ideas  which  were  natural  and  useful  enough  in  the  situation 
in  which  they  originated,  live  on  into  a  totally  changed  situa- 
tion, along  with  other  ideas,  like  that  of  gravitation,  which  are 
as  true  and  as  useful  now  as  when  they  were  first  enunciated. 
Many  customs  and  institutions  which  may  be  found  to  have 
as  great  utility  now  as  when  they  were  first  practiced  genera- 
tions ago,  the  customs  and  institutions,  let  us  say,  of  family 
life,  may  be  found  persisting  along  with  customs  and  institu- 
tions, like  excess  legal  formalism  (or,  as  their  opponents  claim, 
a  bi-cameral  legislative  system  or  a  two-party  system)  which 


t68  HUMAN  TRAITS 

may  come  generally  to  be  regarded  as  impediments  to  prog- 
ress.1 The  unprejudiced  observer,  scientifically  interested  in 
preserving  those  forms  and  mechanisms  of  social  life  which 
are  of  genuine  service  to  his  own  generation,  will  not  condemn 
or  applaud  "the  past"  en  masse.  He  will,  rather,  examine  it 
in  specific  detail.  He  will  not,  for  example,  dismiss  classical 
education,  because  it  is  classical  or  old.  He  will  rather  try 
experimentally  to  determine  the  actual  consequences  in  the 
case  of  those  who  study  the  classics.  He  will  examine  the 
claims  made  for  the  study,  try  in  specific  cases  to  find  out 
whether  those  claims  are  fulfilled,  and  condemn  or  approve 
the  study,  say,  of  Latin  and  Greek,  according  to  his  estimate 
of  the  desirability  or  undesirability  of  those  consequences. 
If  he  finds,  for  example,  that  the  study  of  Latin  does  promote 
general  literary  appreciation,  his  decision  that  it  should  or 
should  not  be  continued  will  depend  on  his  opinion  of  the  value 
of  general  literary  appreciation  as  compared  with  other  values 
in  an  industrial  civilization.  Similarly,  with  "freedom  of  con- 
tract," "freedom  of  the  seas,"  military  service,  bi-cameral 
systems,  party  caucuses,  presidential  veto,  and  all  the  other 
political  and  social  heritages  of  the  past. 

But  a  man  who  impartially  examines  the  past  will  usually 
exhibit  also  an  appreciation  of  its  attainments  and  a  sense  of 
the  present  good  to  which  it  has  been  instrumental.  He  will 
not  glibly  dismiss  institutions,  habits,  methods  of  life  that 
are  the  slow  accumulations  of  centuries.  He  will  have  a 
sense  of  the  continuous  efforts  and  energies  that  have  gone 
into  the  making  of  contemporary  civilization.  He  will  have, 
in  suggesting  ruthless  innovations,  a  sobering  sense  of  the 
gradual  evolution  that  has  made  present  institutions,  habits, 
ideas,  what  they  are. 

The  student  of  the  past  knows,  moreover,  that  the  present 
without  its  background  of  history  is  literally  meaningless. 

!  The  situation  in  the  case  of  outworn  social  institutions  is  paralleled  in  the 
case  of  the  human  appendix,  once  possessing  a  function  in  the  digestive  sys- 
tem of  primitive  man,  but  now  useless  and  likely  on  occasion  to  become  a 
positive  disutility. 


RACIAL  AND  CULTURAL  CONTINUITY     269 

In  the  words  of  a  well-known  student  of  the  development  of 
human  culture: 

Progress,  degradation,  survival,  modification,  are  all  modes  of  the 
connection  that  binds  together  the  complex  network  of  civilization. 
It  needs  but  a  glance  into  the  trivial  details  of  our  own  daily  life  to 
set  us  thinking  how  far  we  are  really  its  originators,  and  how  far 
but  the  transmitters  and  modifiers  of  the  results  of  long  past  ages 
Looking  round  the  rooms  we  live  in,  we  may  try  here  how  far  he  who 
knows  only  his  own  time  can  be  capable  of  rightly  comprehending 
even  that.  Here  is  the  honeysuckle  of  Assyria,  there  the  fleur-de-lis 
of  Anjou,  a  cornice  with  a  Greek  border  runs  round  the  ceiling,  the 
style  of  Louis  XIV  and  its  parent  the  Renaissance  share  the  looking 
glass  between  them.  Transformed,  shifted  or  mutilated,  such  ele- 
ments of  art  still  carry  their  history  plainly  stamped  upon  them.  .  . . 
It  is  thus  even  with  the  fashion  of  the  clothes  men  wear.  The  ridicu- 
lous little  tails  of  the  German  postilion's  coat  show  of  themselves 
how  they  came  to  dwindle  to  such  absurd  rudiments;  but  the  English 
clergyman's  bands  no  longer  so  convey  then*  history  to  the  eye,  and 
look  unaccountable  enough  till  one  has  seen  the  intermediate  stages 
through  which  they  came  down  from  the  more  serviceable  wide 
collars,  such  as  Milton  wears  in  his  portrait,  and  which  gave  their 
name  to  the  "  band-box  "  they  used  to  be  kept  in.  In  fact,  the  books 
of  costume  showing  how  one  garment  grew  or  shrank  by  gradual 
stages  and  passed  into  another,  illustrate  with  much  force  and  clear- 
ness the  nature  of  the  change  and  growth,  revival  and  decay,  which 
go  on  from  year  to  year  in  more  important  matters  of  life.  In  books, 
again,  we  see  each  writer  not  for  and  by  himself,  but  occupying  his 
proper  place  in  history;  we  look  through  each  philosopher,  mathe- 
matician, chemist,  poet,  into  the  background  of  his  education  — 
through  Leibnitz  into  Descartes,  through  Dalton  into  Priestly, 
through  Milton  into  Homer.1 

Besides  understanding  the  present  better  in  terms  of  its 
history,  there  is  much  in  the  heritage  of  the  past,  especially 
of  its  finished  products,  that  the  citizen  of  contemporary 
civilization  will  wish  preserved  for  its  own  sake.  The  works 
of  art,  of  music,  and  of  li terature  which  are  handed  down  to  us 
are  "possessions  forever."  Whatever  be  the  limitations  of 
our  social  inheritance,  as  instruments  for  the  solution  of  our 
difficulties,  those  finished  products  which  constitute  the  "  best 

*  Tylor,  Edward  B.:  Primitive  Culture,  vol.  i,  pp.  17  fl. 


870  HUMAN  TRAITS 

that  has  been  known  and  thought"  in  the  world  are  beyond 
cavil.  They  may  not  solve  our  problems,  but  they  immensely 
enrich  and  broaden  our  lives.  They  are  enjoyed  because  they 
are  intrinsically  beautiful,  but  also  because  they  widen  men's 
sympathies  and  broaden  the  scope  of  contemporary  purposes 
and  ideals. 

The  culture  that  this  transmission  of  racial  experience  makes  pos- 
sible, can  be  made  perfect  by  the  critical  spirit  alone,  and,  indeed, 
may  be  said  to  be  one  with  it.  For  who  is  the  true  critic  but  he  who 
bears  within  himself  the  dreams  and  ideas  and  feelings  of  myriad 
generations,  and  to  whom  no  form  of  thought  is  alien,  no  emotional 
impulse  obscure.  And  who  is  the  true  man  of  culture,  if  not  he  in 
whom  fine  scholarship  and  fastidious  rejection . . .  develops  that 
spirit  of  disinterested  curiosity  which  is  the  real  spirit,  as  it  is  the 
real  fruit  of  the  intellectual  life,  and  thus  attains  to  intellectual  clar- 
ity; and  having  learned  the  best  that  is  known  and  thought  in  the 
world,  lives  —  it  is  not  fanciful  to  say  so  —  among  the  Immortals.1 

The  student  of  Greek  life  knows  that  the  Greeks  in  their 
view  of  Nature  and  of  morals,  in  their  conception  of  the  way 
life  should  be  lived,  in  then:  discrimination  of  the  beautiful, 
have  still  much  to  teach  us.  He  knows,  however  much  we 
may  have  outlived  the  hierarchy  of  obedience  which  consti- 
tutes mediaeval  social  and  political  life,  we  should  do  well  to 
recover  the  humility  in  living,  the  craftsmanship  in  industry, 
and  precision  in  thinking  which  constituted  so  conspicuous 
features  of  mediaeval  civilization.  He  knows  that  progress 
is  not  altogether  measured  by  flying  machines  and  wireless 
telegraphy.  He  is  aware  that  speed  and  quantity,  the  key 
values  in  an  industrial  civilization,  are  not  the  only  values 
that  ever  have  been,  or  ever  should  be  cherished  by  mankind. 

Limitations  of  the  past.  Along  with  a  sensitive  appre- 
ciation of  the  achievements  and  values  of  the  past,  goes,  in 
the  impartial  critic,  an  acknowledgment  of  its  limitations. 
We  can  appreciate  the  distinctive  contributions  of  Greek  cul- 
ture without  setting  up  Greek  life  as  an  ultimate  ideal.  We 
know  that  with  all  the  beauty  attained  and  expressed  in 

»  Oscar  Wilde:  Intentions,  pp.  192-93. 


RACIAL  AND  CULTURAL  CONTINUITY     271 

their  art  and,  to  a  certain  extent,  in  their  civilization,  the 
Athenians  yet  sacrificed  the  majority  to  a  life  of  slavery  in 
order  that  the  minority  might  lead  a  life  of  the  spirit,  that 
their  religion  had  its  notable  crudities  and  cruelties,  that 
their  science  was  trivial,  and  their  control  of  Nature  neg- 
ligible. In  the  words  of  one  of  their  most  thoroughgoing 
admirers: 

The  harmony  of  the  Greeks  contained  in  itself  the  factors  of  its 
own  destruction.  And  in  spite  of  the  fascination  which  constantly 
fixes  our  gaze  on  that  fairest  and  happiest  halting  place  in  the  secular 
march  of  man,  it  was  not  there,  any  more  than  here,  that  he  was 
destined  to  find  an  ultimate  reconciliation  and  repose.1 

Again,  we  know  the  many  beautiful  features  of  mediaeval 
life  through  its  painting  and  poetry  and  religion.  We  know 
Saint  Francis  and  are  familiar  with  the  heroic  records  of 
saintliness  and  renunciation.  We  know  the  great  cathedrals, 
the  pageantry  and  splendor,  the  exquisite  handicraft,  the 
tapestries  and  illuminated  manuscripts,  the  vast  learning 
and  the  incomparable  dialectic.  We  know  also  the  social 
injustices,  the  misery  and  squalor,  the  ignorance  in  which 
the  mass  of  the  people  lived. 

We  can  stop,  therefore,  neither  in  perpetual  adoration  of  nor 
perpetual  caviling  at  the  past.  Each  age  had  its  special  excel- 
lences and  its  special  defects,  both  from  the  point  of  view 
of  the  ideals  then  current,  and  those  current  in  our  own  day. 
In  so  far  as  the  past  is  dead  and  over  with,  we  cannot  legiti- 
mately criticize  it  with  standards  of  our  own  day.  We  cannot 
blame  the  Greeks  for  sanctioning  slavery,  nor  criticize  James  I 
because  he  was  not  a  thoroughgoing  democrat.  But  in  so  far 
as  the  past  still  lives,  it  is  open  to  critical  examination  and 
revision.  Traditions,  customs,  ideas,  and  institutions  in- 
herited from  the  past,  which  still  control  us,  are  subject  to 
modification.  We  are  justified  in  welcoming  changes  and 
modifications  which,  after  careful  inquiry,  seem  clearly  to 
promise  betterment  in  the  life  of  the  group.  Thus  to  welcome 

*  O.  Lowes  Dickinson:  Greek  View  of  Life,  p.  248. 


272  HUMAN  TRAITS 

changes  which  upon  experimental  evidence  show  clearly  the 
benefits  that  will  accrue  to  the  group,  is  not  radicalism.  Nor 
is  opposition  to  changes  on  the  ground  that  upon  critical 
examination  they  give  promise  of  harmful  consequences,  con- 
servatism. Verdicts  for  or  against  change  reached  on  such  a 
basis  reflect  the  spirit  and  technique  of  experimental  science. 
They  reflect  the  desire  to  settle  a  course  of  action  on  the  basis 
of  its  results  in  practice  rather  than  on  any  preconceived 
prejudices  hi  favor  either  of  stability  or  change.  To  the  crit- 
ical mind,  neither  stability  nor  change  is  an  end  hi  itself. 
There  is  no  hypnotism  about  "things  as  they  are";  no  lure 
about  things  as  they  have  not  yet  been.  The  problem  is 
shifted  to  a  detailed  and  thoroughgoing  inquiry  into  the  con- 
sequences of  specific  changes  in  social  habits,  ideas  and  insti- 
tutions, education,  business,  and  industry.  Whether  changes 
should  or  should  not  win  critical  approval  depends  on  the  kind 
of  ideals  or  purposes  we  set  ourselves  and,  secondly,  on  the 
practicability  of  the  proposed  changes.  Change  may  thus 
be  opposed  or  approved,  in  a  given  case,  on  the  grounds  of 
desirability  or  feasibility.  Whether  a  change  is  or  is  not  de- 
sirable depends  on  the  ideals  of  the  individual  or  the  group. 
Whether  it  is  or  is  not  feasible  is  a  matter  open  increasingly  to 
scientific  determination.  Thus  a  city  may  hire  experts  to 
discover  what  land  of  transportation  or  educational  system 
will  best  serve  the  city's  needs.  But  whether  it  will  or  will  not 
spend  the  money  necessary  depends  on  the  social  interests 
current. 

Education  as  the  transmitter  of  the  past.  Education  is  the 
process  by  which  society  undertakes  the  transmission  of  its 
social  heritage.  Indeed  the  mam  function  of  education  in 
static  societies  is  the  initiation  of  the  young  into  already 
established  customs  and  traditions.  It  is  the  method  used 
to  hand  down  those  social  habits  which  the  influential  and 
articulate  classes  in  a  society  regard  as  important  enough  to 
have  early  fixed  in  its  young  members.  The  past  is  simply 
transmitted,  handed  down  en  masse.  It  is  a  set  of  patterns 


RACIAL  AND  CULTURAL  CONTINUITY     273 

to  be  imitated,  of  ideals  to  be  continued,  of  mechanisms  for 
attaining  the  fixed  purposes  which  are  current  in  the  group. 
In  progressive  societies  education  may  be  used  not  simply 
to  hand  down  habits  of  doing,  feeling,  and  thinking,  from  the 
older  generation  to  the  younger,  but  to  make  habitual  in  the 
young  reflective  consideration  of  the  ends  which  must  be 
attained,  and  reflective  inquiry  into  the  means  for  attaining 
them.  The  past  will  not  be  handed  down  in  indiscriminate 
completeness.  The  present  and  its  problems  are  regarded  as 
the  standard  of  importance,  and  the  past  is  considered  as  an 
incomparable  reservoir  of  materials  and  methods  which  may 
contribute  to  the  ends  sought  in  the  present.  But  there  is  so 
much  material  and  so  little  time,  that  selection  must  be  made. 
Many  things  in  the  past,  interesting  on  their  own  merits,  must 
be  omitted  in  favor  of  those  habits,  traditions,  and  recorded 
files  of  knowledge  which  are  most  fruitful  and  enlightening  in 
the  attainment  of  contemporary  purposes.  What  those  pur- 
poses are  depends,  of  course,  on  ideals  of  the  group  in  control 
of  the  process  of  education.  But  these  purposes  of  ideals  may 
be  derived  from  present  situations  and  not  taken  merely  be- 
cause they  have  long  been  current  in  the  group.  Thus,  in  a 
predominantly  industrial  civilization,  it  may  be  found  more 
advisable  and  important  to  transmit  the  scientific  and  tech- 
nical methods  of  control  which  men  have  acquired  in  recent 
generations  than  the  traditional  liberal  arts.  Science  may  be 
found  more  important  than  the  humanities,  medicine  than 
moral  theory.  Even  such  education  that  tends  to  call  itself 
"liberal"  or  "cultural"  is  effective  and  genuine  education 
just  in  so  far  as  it  does  illuminate  the  world  in  which  we  live. 
The  religion  and  art,  the  literature  and  life  of  the  past  broaden 
the  meaning  and  the  background  of  our  lives.  They  are  valu- 
able just  because  they  do  enrich  the  lives  of  those  who  are 
exposed  to  their  influence.  If  studying  the  great  literature 
and  the  art  of  the  past  did  not  clarify  the  mind  and  emanci- 
pate the  spirit,  enabling  men  to  live  more  richly  in  the  pres- 
ent, they  would  hardly  be  as  studiously  cherished  and  trans- 


274  HUMAN  TRAITS 

mitted  as  they  are.  We  are,  after  all,  living  in  the  present. 
The  culture  of  the  past  either  does  or  does  not  illuminate  it. 
If  it  does  not  it  is  a  competing  environment,  a  shadow  world 
in  which  we  may  play  truant  from  actuality,  but  which 
brings  neither  "sweetness  nor  light"  to  the  actual  world  in 
which  we  live. 


PART  H 

THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

THE  foregoing  analysis  of  human  behavior  might  thus  be 
briefly  summarized.  We  found  that  man  is  born  a  creature 
with  certain  tendencies  to  act  in  certain  definite  ways,  tenden- 
cies which  he  largely  possesses  in  common  with  the  lower  ani- 
mals. We  found  also  that  man  could  learn  by  trial  and  error, 
that  his  original  instinctive  equipment  could  be  modified. 
Thus  far  in  his  mental  life  man  is  indistinguishable  from  the 
beasts.  But  man's  peculiar  capacity,  it  appeared,  lay  in  his 
ability  to  think,  to  control  his  actions  in  the  light  of  a  future, 
to  choose  one  response  rather  than  another  because  of  its 
consequences,  which  he  could  foresee  and  prefer.  This  capac- 
ity for  reflection,  for  formulating  a  purpose  and  being  able  to 
obtain  it,  we  found  to  be  practical  in  its  origins,  but  persisting 
on  its  own  account  in  the  disinterested  inquiry  of  philosophy 
and  science  and  the  free  imaginative  construction  of  art.  And 
in  all  man's  behavior,  whether  on  the  plane  of  instinct,  habit, 
or  reflection,  we  found  action  to  be  accompanied  by  emotion, 
by  love  and  hate,  anger  and  awe,  which  might  at  once  impede 
action  by  confusing  it,  or  sustain  it  by  giving  it  a  vivid  and 
compelling  motive. 

The  second  part  of  the  book  was  devoted  to  an  analysis  of 
the  various  specific  traits  which  human  beings  display  and  the 
consequences  that  these  have  in  men's  relations  with  one 
another.  Under  certain  conditions,  one  or  another  of  these 
may  become  predominant;  in  particular  historical  conditions, 
one  or  another  of  them  may  have  a  high  social  value  or  the 
reverse.  These  traits  vary  in  different  individuals;  hi  any  of 
them,  a  man  may  be  totally  defective  or  abnormally  developed. 
But  taken  in  general,  they  constitute  the  changeless  pattern 


«76  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

of  human  nature,  and  fix  the  conditions  and  the  limits  of 
action. 

But  while  these  universal  traits  determine  what  man  may 
do,  and  fix  definitively  the  boundaries  of  human  possibility, 
within  these  limits  the  race  has  a  wide  choice  of  ideals  and 
attainments.  The  standards  of  what  man  will  and  should  do, 
within  the  boundaries  of  the  nature  which  is  his  inheritance, 
are  to  be  found  not  in  his  original  impulses,  but  in  his  mind 
and  imagination.  The  human  being  is  gifted  with  the  ability 
to  imagine  a  future  more  desirable  than  the  present,  and  to 
contrive  ingeniously  in  behalf  of  anticipated  or  imagined 
goods. 

These  anticipated  goods  we  call  ideals,  and  these  ideals 
arise,  in  the  last  analysis,  out  of  the  initial  and  inborn  hungers 
and  cravings  of  men.  "  Intellect  is  of  the  same  flesh  and  blood 
with  all  the  instincts,  a  brother  whose  superiority  lies  in  his 
power  to  appreciate,  harmonize,  and  save  them  all."  The 
function  of  reason  is  not  to  set  itself  over  against  men's  orig- 
inal desires,  but  to  envisage  ideals  and  devise  instruments 
whereby  they  may  all,  so  far  as  nature  allows,  be  fulfilled. 

Man's  reason,  then,  which  has  its  roots  in  his  instincts,  is 
the  means  of  their  harmonious  fulfillment.  It  attempts,  in 
the  various  fields  of  experience,  to  effect  an  adjustment  be- 
tween man's  competing  desires,  and  between  man  and  his  en- 
vironment. If  instincts  were  left  each  to  its  own  free  course, 
they  would  all  be  frustrated;  if  man  did  not  learn  reflectively 
to  control  his  environment,  and  to  make  it  subserve  his  own 
ends,  he  would  be  a  helpless  pygmy  soon  obliterated  by  the 
incomparably  more  powerful  forces  of  Nature. 

These  various  attempts  of  man  to  effect  an  adjustment  of 
his  passions  with  one  another,  and  his  life  to  his  environment, 
may  be  described  as  the  "Career  of  Reason."  In  this  career 
man  has  formulated  many  ideals,  not  a  small  number  of  which 
have  led  him  into  error,  disillusion,  and  unhappiness.  Some- 
times they  have  misled  him  by  promising  him  fulfillments 
that  were  in  the  nature  of  things  unattainable.  They  have 


THE  CAREER  OF  REASON  277 

added  to  the  real  evils  of  life  a  longing  after  impossible  goods, 
goods  which  an  informed  intelligence  would  early  have  dis- 
missed as  unattainable.  Man  has  disappointed  himself  by 
counting  on  joys  which,  had  he  been  less  incorrigibly  addicted 
to  imaginative  illusions,  he  should  never  have  expected. 
Sometimes  he  has  framed  ideals  which  could  be  fulfilled,  but 
only  at  the  expense  of  a  large  proportion  of  natural  and  irre- 
pressible human  desires.  Such,  for  example,  have  been  the 
one-sided  ascetic  ideals  of  Stoicism  or  Puritanism,  which  in 
their  attempt  to  give  order  and  form  to  life,  crush  and  distort 
a  considerable  portion  of  it.  The  same  is  true  of  mysticism 
which  seeks  frequently  to  attain  lif e  by  altogether  denying  its 
instinctive  animal  basis.  Yet  though  reason  has  led  men 
astray,  it  is  the  only  and  ultimate  hope  of  man's  happiness. 
It  is  responsible  for  whatever  success  man  has  had  hi  master- 
ing the  turmoil  of  his  own  passions  and  the  obstacles  of  an 
environment  "which  was  not  made  for  him  but  in  which  he 
grew."  It  has  given  point  and  justice  to  Swinburne's  exult- 
ant boast: 

"Glory  to  man  in  the  highest!    For  man  is  the  master  of  things!" 

This  Career  of  Reason  has  taken  various  parallel  fulfill- 
ments, and  in  each  of  them  man  has  in  varying  degrees  at- 
tained mastery.  Religion  arose  as  one  of  the  earliest  ways  by 
which  man  attempted  to  win  for  himself  a  secure  place  in  the 
cosmic  order.  Science,  in  its  earliest  forms  hardly  distinguish- 
able from  religion,  is  man's  persistent  attempt  to  discover  the 
nature  of  things,  and  to  exploit  that  discovery  for  his  own 
good.  Art  is  again  an  instance  of  man's  march  toward  mas- 
tery. Beginning,  in  the  broadest  sense,  in  the  industrial  arts, 
in  agriculture  and  handicrafts,  it  passes,  as  it  were  by  acci- 
dent, from  the  necessary  to  the  beautiful.  Having  in  his 
needful  business  fortuitously  created  beautiful  objects,  man 
comes  to  create  them  intentionally,  both  for  their  own  sake 
and  for  the  sheer  pleasure  of  creation. 

Finally  in  morals  men  have  endeavored  to  construct  for 


278  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

themselves  codes  of  conduct,  ideals  of  life,  in  which  no  possible 
good  should  be  needlessly  or  recklessly  sacrificed,  and  in  which 
men  might  live  together  as  happily  as  is  permitted  by  the 
nature  which  is  at  once  their  life  and  their  habitation.  The 
Career  of  Reason  in  these  various  fields  we  shall  briefly  trace 
and  describe.  We  must  expect  to  find,  as  in  any  career,  how- 
ever successful,  failures  along  with  the  triumphs,  and,  as  in 
any  notable  career  still  unfinished,  possibility  and  great 
promise.  Man's  reason  and  imagination  have  a  long  past; 
they  have  also  an  indefinite  future.  Man  has  in  the  name  of 
reason  made  many  errors;  but  to  reason  he  owes  his  chief 
success,  and  with  increasing  experience  he  may  be  expected 
to  attain  continually  to  a  more  certain  and  effective  wisdom. 
With  these  provisos,  let  us  address  ourselves  to  the  Career  of 
Reason,  beginning  with  religion. 


CHAPTER  XH 
RELIGION  AND  THE  RELIGIOUS  EXPERIENCE 

The  religious  experience.  Since  human  nature  remains 
constant  hi  its  essential  traits,  despite  the  variations  it  exhib- 
its among  different  individuals,  it  is  to  be  expected  that  cer- 
tain experiences  should  be  fairly  common  and  recurrent  among 
all  human  beings.  Joy  and  sorrow,  love  and  hate,  jubilance 
and  despair,  disillusion  and  rapture,  triumph  and  frustration, 
these  occur  often,  and  to  every  man.  They  are,  as  it  were, 
the  sparks  generated  by  the  friction  of  human  desires  with  the 
natural  world  in  which  they  must,  if  anywhere,  find  fulfill- 
ment. Just  such  a  normal,  inevitable  consequence  of  human 
nature  in  a  natural  world  is  the  religious  experience.  It  is 
common  in  more  or  less  intense  degree  to  almost  all  men,  and 
may  be  studied  objectively  just  as  may  any  of  the  other  uni- 
versal experiences  of  mankind. 

There  are,  however,  certain  peculiar  difficulties  in  the  study 
of  the  religious  experience.  Most  men  are  by  training  emo- 
tionally committed  to  one  particular  religious  creed  which  it  is 
very  difficult  for  them  impartially  to  examine  or  to  compare 
with  others.  In  the  second  place,  there  is  a  confusion  hi  the 
minds  of  most  people  between  the  personal  religious  experi- 
ence, and  the  formal  and  external  institution  we  commonly 
have  in  mind  when  we  speak  of  "religion."  When  we  ordi- 
narily use  the  term,  we  imply  a  set  of  dogmas,  an  institution, 
a  reasoned  theology,  a  ritual,  a  priesthood,  all  the  apparatus 
and  earmarks  of  institutionalized  religion.  We  think  of 
Christianity,  Mohammedanism,  Judaism,  the  whole  welter 
of  churches  and  creeds  that  have  appeared  in  the  history  of 
mankind.  But  these  are  rather  the  outward  vehicles  and 
vestments  of  the  religious  experience  than  the  experience 
itself.  They  are  the  social  expressions  and  external  instru- 


280  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

ments  of  the  inner  spiritual  occurrence.  But  the  latter  is 
primary.  If  man  had  not  first  been  religious,  these  would 
never  have  arisen.  In  the  words  of  William  James: 

In  one  sense  at  least,  the  personal  religion  will  prove  itself  more 
fundamental  than  either  theology  or  ecclesiasticism.  Churches 
when  once  established  live  at  second  hand  upon  tradition,  but  the 
founders  of  every  Church  owed  their  power  originally  to  the  fact  of 
their  direct  personal  communion  with  the  divine.  Not  only  the 
superhuman  founders,  the  Christ,  the  Buddha,  Mahomet,  but  all 
the  originators  of  Christian  sects  have  been  in  this  case;  so  personal 
religion  should  still  seem  the  primordial  thing,  even  to  those  who 
esteem  it  incomplete.1 

Before  we  examine  the  social  institutions  and  fixed  appara- 
tus of  ritual  and  of  reasoned  theology  in  which  the  religious 
Experience  has  become  variously  embodied,  we  must  pause  to 
analyze  the  experience  itself.  To  be  religious,  as  a  personal 
experience,  is,  like  being  philosophical,  to  take  a  total  attitude 
toward  the  universe.  But  the  religious  attitude  is  one  of  a 
somewhat  specific  kind.  It  is,  one  may  arbitrarily  but  also 
somewhat  f airly  say,  to  sense  or  comprehend  one's  relation  to 
the  divine,  however  the  divine  be  conceived.  It  is  to  have  this 
sense  and  comprehension  not  only  deeply,  as  one  might  hi  a 
poetic  or  a  philosophical  mood,  but  to  have  it  suffused  with 
reverence.  We  shall  presently  see  that  the  objects  of  venera- 
tion have  had  a  different  meaning  for  different  individuals, 
groups,  and  generations.  But  whatever  be  the  conception  of 
the  divine  object,  the  religious  attitude  seems  to 'have  this 
stable  feature.  It  is  always  an  awed  awareness  on  the  part 
of  the  individual  of  his  relation  to  that  "something  not  him- 
self," and  larger  than  himself,  with  whom  the  destinies  of  the 
universe  seem  to  rest.  This  somehow  sensed  relation  to  the 
divine  appears  throughout  all  the  varieties  of  religion  that 
have  appeared  in  the  world,  and  among  many  individuals  not 
popularly  accounted  religious. 

It  is  just  such  an  experience,  for  example,  that  Wordsworth 

>  James:  Varieties  of  Religious  Experience,  p.  30. 


RELIGION  AND  RELIGIOUS  EXPERIENCE    281 

expresses  when  he  says  in  the  "Lines  Written  Above  Tintern 
Abbey": 

"...  And  I  have  felt 
A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts;  a  sense  sublime 
Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 
Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 
And  the  round  ocean  and  the  living  air, 
And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man; 
A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels 
All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought, 
And  rolls  through  all  things." 

It  is  the  same  sense  that  comes  over  so-called  worldly  peo- 
ple when  oppressed  suddenly  by  a  great  sorrow,  or  uplifted 
by  a  sudden  great  joy,  an  awareness  of  a  divine  power  that 
moves  masterfully  and  mysteriously  through  the  events  of 
life,  provoking  on  the  part  of  finite  creatures  a  strange  and 
compelling  reverence.  This  " divinity  that  shapes  our  ends" 
may  be  variously  conceived.  It  may  be  an  intimately  real- 
ized personal  God,  "Our  Father  which  art  in  Heaven."  It 
may  be  such  an  abstract  conception  as  the  Laws  of  Nature  or 
Scientific  Law,  such  a  religion  as  is  expounded  by  the  Tran- 
scendentalists,  in  particular  by  Emerson: 

These  laws  execute  themselves.  They  are  out  of  time,  out  of 
space,  and  not  subject  to  circumstance:  thus  in  the  soul  of  man  there 
is  a  justice  whose  retributions  are  instant  and  entire.  ...  If  a  man  is 
at  heart  just,  then,  in  so  far  is  he  God;  the  safety  of  God,  the  immor- 
tality of  God,  the  majesty  of  God,  do  enter  into  that  man  with  jus- 
tice. . . .  For  all  things  proceed  out  of  the  same  spirit,  which  is  differ- 
ently named,  love,  justice,  temperance,  in  its  different  applications, 
just  as  the  ocean  receives  different  names  on  the  several  snores  which 
it  washes. .  .  .  The  perception  of  this  law  awakens  in  the  mind  a 
sentiment  which  we  call  the  religious  sentiment,  and  which  makes 
our  highest  happiness.  Wonderful  is  its  power  to  charm  and  to 
command.  It  is  a  mountain  air.  It  is  the  embalmer  of  the  world. 
It  makes  the  sky  and  the  hills  sublime,  and  the  silent  song  of  the 
stars  is  it.  It  is  the  beatitude  of  man.  It  makes  him  illimitable.1 

It  may  be  conceived  as  Nature  itself,  as  it  was  by  Spinoza, 

1  Emerson:  Miacellaniet,  quoted  by  James  in  Varietiet,  pp.  32-33. 


282  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

for  whom  Natwe  was  identical  with  God.     It  may  be  the 
World-Soul  which  Shelley  sings  with  such  rapture: 

"That  Light  whose  smile  kindles  the  universe, 
That  beauty  in  which  all  things  work  and  move, 
That  benediction  which  the  eclipsing  curse 
Of  birth  can  quench  not,  that  sustaining  love, 
Which  through  the  web  of  being,  blindly  wove, 
By  man  and  beast  and  earth  and  air  and  sea, 
Burns  bright  or  dim,  as  each  are  mirrors  of 
The  fire  for  which  all  thirst  —  now  beams  on  me, 
Consuming  the  last  clouds  of  cold  mortality."  l 

In  all  these  conceptions  it  still  seems  to  be  a  hushed  sense  of 
reverential  relationship  to  the  divine  power  that  most  spe- 
cifically constitutes  the  religious  experience.  The  latter  ex- 
hibits certain  recurrent  elements,  any  of  which  may  be  present 
in  a  more  intense  degree  in  some  individuals  than  in  others, 
but  all  of  which  appear  in  some  degree  in  most  of  the  phenom- 
ena of  personal  life  that  we  call  religious. 

"  The  reality  of  the  unseen."  In  the  first  place  may  be 
noted  the  sense  of  the  actuality  and  nearness  of  the  divine 
power,  what  James  calls  the  "reality  of  the  unseen,"  and 
what  is  frequently  spoken  of  by  religious  men  as  "the  pres- 
ence of  God."  .James  quotes  in  this  connection  an  interesting 
letter  of  James  Russell  Lowell's: 

I  had  a  revelation  last  Friday  evening. . . .  Happening  to  say 
something  of  the  presence  of  spirits  of  whom,  as  I  said,  I  was  often 
dimly  aware,  Mr.  Putnam  entered  into  an  argument  with  me  on 
spiritual  matters.  As  I  was  speaking,  the  whole  system  seemed  to 
rise  up  before  me,  like  a  vague'destiny  looming  from  the  abyss.  I 
never  before  felt  the  spirit  of  God  so  keenly  in  me,  and  around  me. 
The  whole  room  seemed  to  me  full  of  God.  The  air  seemed  to  waver 
to  and  fro  with  the  presence  of  something  I  knew  not  what.  I  spoke 
with  the  calmness  and  clearness  of  a  prophet.2 

The  archives  of  the  psychology  of  religion  are  crowded 
with  instances  of  men  who  have  felt  deeply,  intimately,  and 
irrefutably  the  near  and  actual  presence  of  God.  This  sense 
of  the  reality  of  an  unseen  Thing  or  Power  is  not  always  iden- 

1  From  Adonaia.  *  Lowell:  Letters,  l,  p.  70. 


RELIGION  AND  RELIGIOUS  EXPERIENCE    283 

tified  with  God.  There  come  moments  in  the  lives  of  normal 
men  and  women  when  the  world  of  experience  seems  alive 
with  something  that  is  apprehended  through  none  of  the  five 
senses.  There  are  times  when  things  unseen,  unheard,  and 
untouched  seem  to  have,  nay,  for  those  concerned,  do  have, 
a  clearer  and  more  unmistakable  reality  than  the  things  we 
can  touch,  hear,  and  see.  Sometimes,  in  the  hearing  of 
beautiful  music,  we  sense  a  transcendent  beauty  which  is 
something  other  than,  something  more  real  than,  the  specific 
harmonies  which  we  physically  hear.  In  rare  moments  of 
rapture,  when  the  imagination  or  the  affections  are  intensely 
stirred,  we  become  intensely  aware  of  this  reality  which  is 
made  known  to  us  through  none  of  the  ordinary  avenues  of 
experience.  The  Unseen  is  not  only  vividly  felt,  but  is  deeply 
felt  and  regarded  as  a  thing  of  deep  significance,  and  is  experi- 
enced in  most  cases  with  great  inexplicable  joy.  And,  not 
infrequently,  this  significant  and  beautiful  Unseen  Somewhat 
is  identified  with  God. 

The  sense  of  the  reality  of  the  divine,  is,  however,  as  it  were, 
only  the  prerequisite  of  the  religious  experience.  When  an 
individual  does  have  this  sense,  what  interests  the  student  of 
the  psychology  of  religion  is  the  attitude  it  provokes  and  the 
satisfactions  it  gives.  These  we  can  the  better  understand  if 
we  examine  the  conditions  in  an  individual's  experience  which 
make  this  longing  for  the  divine  presence  acute,  and  the 
general  circumstances  of  human  life  which  make  it  a  continu- 
ous desire  in  many  people. 

There  are,  to  begin  with,  constant  facts  of  experience  which 
make  the  realization  of  the  divine  presence  not  only  a  satis- 
faction, but  the  indispensable  "staff  of  life"  for  certain  human 
beings.  In  their  unfaltering  faith  in  God's  enduring  and  prox- 
imate actuality  lies  then:  sole  source  of  security  and  trust. 
For  such  persons  a  lapse  or  a  lack  of  faith  is  the  prelude  to 
utter  collapse.  A  vague  general  assurance  of  the  depend- 
ability of  the  future  is,  for  most  people,  a  prerequisite  for  a 
sane  and  untroubled  existence.  Even  those  who  live  in  un- 


284  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

reflective  satisfaction  with  the  fruits  of  the  moment  would 
find  these  moments  less  satisfactory  were  they  not  set  in  a 
background  of  reasonably  fair  promise.  The  exuberant  opti- 
mist, when  he  stops  to  reflect,  has  a  buoyant  and  inclusive 
faith  in  the  essential  goodness  of  man  and  the  universe. 
Whitman  stands  out  in  this  connection  as  the  classic  type. 
Evil  and  good  were  to  him  indifferently  beautiful.  He  main- 
tained an  incredibly  large-hearted  and  magnanimous  recep- 
tivity to  all  things  great  or  small,  charming  or  ugly,  that 
lightened  or  blackened  the  face  of  the  planet. 

While  the  average  man  accepts  the  universe  with  a  less 
wholesale  and  indiscriminate  appreciation,  yet  he  does  feel 
vaguely  assured  that  the  nature  of  things  is  ordered,  har- 
monious, dependable,  and  regular,  that  affairs  are,  cosmically 
speaking,  in  a  sound  state.  He  feels  a  vast  and  comfortable 
solidity  about  the  frame  of  things  in  which  his  life  is  set;  he 
can  depend  on  the  familiar  risings  and  settings  of  the  sun,  the 
recurrent  and  assured  movement  of  the  seasons.  Were  this 
trust  suddenly  removed,  were  the  cosmic  guarantee  with- 
drawn, to  live  would  be  one  long  mortal  terror.  That  this  is 
precisely  what  does  happen  under  such  circumstances,  the 
voluminous  literature  of  melancholia  sufficiently  proves. 

The  sense  of  insecurity  takes  various  forms.  Sometimes 
the  patient  experiences  a  profound  and  intimate  conviction 
of  the  unreality  of  the  world  about  him.  His  whole  physical 
environment  comes  to  seem  a  mere  phantasy  and  a  delusion. 
In  some  cases  he  finds  himself  unmoved  by  the  normal  inter- 
ests and  excitements  of  men,  unable  to  find  any  stimulus, 
value,  or  significance  in  the  world. 

Esquirol  observed  the  case  of  a  very  intelligent  magistrate.  . .  . 
Every  emotion  appeared  dead  within  him.  He  manifested  neither 
perversion  nor  violence,  but  a  complete  absence  of  emotional  reaction. 
If  he  went  to  the  theater,  which  he  did  out  of  habit,  he  could  find  no 
pleasure  there.  The  thought  of  his  house,  of  his  home,  of  his  wife, 
and  of  his  absent  children,  moved  him  as  little,  he  said,  as  a  theo- 
rem of  Euclid.1 

1  Ribot:  Psychology  of  the  Emotions,  p.  54. 


RELIGION  AND  RELIGIOUS  EXPERIENCE    285 

The  sense  of  futility,  of  the  flatness,  staleness,  and  unprofit- 
ableness of  the  world,  which  is  felt  in  such  extreme  forms  by 
pronounced  melancholiacs,  is  experienced  sometimes,  though 
to  a  lesser  degree,  by  every  sensitive  mind  that  reflects  much 
upon  life.  Such  an  attitude,  it  is  true,  arises  principally  dur- 
ing moments  of  fatigue  and  low  vitality,  and  is  undoubtedly 
organic  in  its  origins,  as  for  that  matter  is  optimism.  Again 
such  a  sense  of  world-weariness  comes  often  in  moments  of 
personal  disappointment  and  disillusion,  when  friends  have 
proved  false,  ambitions  empty,  efforts  wasted.  At  such  times 
even  the  normal  man  echoes  Swinburne's  beautiful  melan- 
choly: ; 

"We  are  not  sure  of  sorrow, 

And  joy  was  never  sure, 
To-day  will  die  to-morrow, 

Time  stoops  to  no  man's  lure; 
And  love  grown  faint  and  fretful, 
With  lips  but  half  regretful, 
Sighs,  and  with  eyes  forgetful, 

Weeps  that  no  loves  endure. 

"From  too  much  love  of  living, 

From  hope  and  fear  set  free, 
We  thank  with  brief  thanksgiving, 

Whatever  gods  may  be, 
That  no  life  lives,  forever; 
That  dead  men  rise  up  never; 
That  even  the  weariest  river, 

Winds  somewhere  safe  to  sea."  * 

Even  the  eager  and  exuberant,  if  sufficiently  philosophical 
and  generous-minded,  may  come,  despite  their  own  success, 
to  a  deep  realization  of  the  utter  futility,  meaninglessness,  and 
stupidity  of  life,  of  the  essential  blindnesses,  cruelties,  and 
insecurities  which  seem  to  characterize  the  nature  of  things. 
Unless  against  this  dark  insight  some  reassuring  faith  arises, 
life  may  become  almost  unbearable.  In  extreme  cases  it  has 
driven  men  to  suicide.  Take,  for  example,  the  picture  of  the 
universe  as  modern  materialism  presents  it: 

1  From  A  Garden  of  Proserpine. 


286  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

Purposeless  .  .  .  and  void  of  meaning  is  the  world  which  science 
reveals  for  our  belief.  .  .  .  That  man  is  the  product  of  causes  that  had 
no  prevision  of  the  end  they  were  achieving,  that  his  origin,  his 
growth,  his  hopes  and  fears,  his  loves  and  beliefs,  are  but  the  outcome 
of  accidental  collocations  of  atoms;  that  no  fire,  no  heroism,  no  in- 
tensity of  thought  or  feeling  can  preserve  an  individual  life  beyond 
the  grave,  that  all  the  labors  of  the  ages,  all  the  devotion,  all  the 
inspiration,  all  the  noonday  brightness  of  human  genius  are  destined 
to  extinction  in  the  vast  death  of  the  solar  system,  and  that  the 
whole  temple  of  man's  achievements  must  inevitably  be  buried  be- 
neath the  de'bris  of  a  universe  in  ruins  —  all  these  things  if  not  quite 
beyond  dispute,  are  yet  so  nearly  certain  that  no  philosophy  which 
rejects  them  can  hope  to  stand.  Only  within  the  scaffolding  of  these 
truths,  only  on  the  firm  foundation  of  unyielding  despair,  can  the 
soul's  habitation  henceforth  be  safely  built.1 

Such  a  prospect  to  the  serious-minded  and  sensitive-spirited 
cannot  but  provoke  the  profoundest  melancholy.  There  is, 
even  for  the  most  healthy-minded  of  us,  sufficient  ground  for 
pessimism,  bitterness,  insecurity.  Even  if  we  personally  — 
largely  through  the  accidents  of  circumstance  —  happen  to 
be  successful,  "our  joy  is  a  vulgar  glee,  not  unlike  the  snicker 
of  any  rogue  at  his  success."  The  utter  futility  and  evanes- 
cence of  earthly  goods,  beauties,  and  achievements  is  sensed 
at  least  sometimes  by  normally  complacent  souls.  And  so 
patent  and'ubiquitous  are  the  evidences  of  decay,  disease,  and 
death  at  our  disposal,  that  they  may  easily  be  erected  into  a 
thoroughgoing  philosophy  of  life: 

Vanity  of  vanities,  saith  the  preacher,  vanity  of  vanities,  all  is 
vanity. 

What  profit  hath  a  man  of  all  his  labor  which  he  taketh  under  the 
sun?  . . . 

All  things  come  alike  to  all:  there  is  one  event  to  the  righteous  and 
to  the  wicked;  to  the  good  and  to  the  clean,  and  to  the  unclean;  to 
him  that  sacrificeth  and  to  him  that  sacrificeth  not:  as  is  the  good  so 
is  the  sinner;  and  he  that  sweareth  as  he  that  feareth  an  oath.  . . . 

For  the  living  know  that  they  shall  die;  but  the  dead  know  not 
anything,  neither  have  they  any  more  a  reward;  for  the  memory  of 
them  is  forgotten. 

1  Bertrand  Russell:  Philosophical  Eeaays,  pp.  60-61  ("The  Free  Man's 
Worship"). 


their  love  and  their  hatred  and  their  envy  is  now  perished; 
neither  have  they  any  more  a  portion  forever  in  anything  that  is 
done  under  the  sun.1 

Religion  offers  solace  to  those  perturbed  and  passionate 
souls,  among  others,  to  whom  these  futilities  have  become  a 
rankling,  continuous  torment  and  depression.  When  life  on 
earth  appears  fragmentary  and  disordered,  not  only  nonsense 
but  terrifying  nonsense,  full  of  hideous  injustices,  sickening 
uncertainties,  and  cruel  destructions,  men  have  not  infre- 
quently found  a  refuge  in  the  divine.  "Come  unto  me  all 
ye  that  labor  and  are  heavy  laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest." 

In  the  religious  experience  man  finds  life  to  be  made  clear, 
complete,  and  beautiful.  What  seems  a  contradictory  frag- 
ment finds  its  precise  niche  in  the  divine  scheme,  what  seems 
dark  and  cruel  shines  out  in  a  setting  of  eternal  beneficence 
and  wisdom.  The  experience  of  the  individual,  even  the  hap- 
piest, is  always  partial,  broken,  and  disordered.  No  ideal  is 
ever  completely  realized,  or  if  realized  leaves  some  perfection 
to  be  desired.  Men  living  in  a  natural  existence  imagine 
values  and  ideals  which  can  never  be  realized  there.  In  reli- 
gion, if  anywhere,  men  have  found  perfection,  and  ultimate 
sufficiency. 

This  perfection,  completion,  and  clarification  of  life  has  been 
attained  in  various  ways.  The  religious  experience  itself, 
when  intense,  may  give  to  the  individual  apart  from  a  rea- 
soned judgment,  or  from  any  actual  change  in  his  physical 
surroundings,  a  translucent  insight  during  which  he  sees 
deeply,  calmly,  joyously  into  the  beautiful  eternal  order  of 
things.  This  mystic  insight  has  been  experienced  on  occasion 
by  quite  normal  and  prosaic  men  and  women.  While  it  lasts, 
reality  seems  to  take  on  new  colors  and  dimensions.  It  be- 
comes vivid,  luminous,  and  intense.  The  mystic  seems  to 
rise  to  a  higher  level  of  consciousness,  in  which  he  experiences 
a  universe  more  significant,  ordered,  and  unified  than  any 
commonly  experienced  through  the  senses.  One  may  take, 

1  Ecckaiatta. 


288  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

as  an  example,  such  an  instance  autobiographically  and  anony- 
mously reported  a  few  years  ago,  and  well  documented : 

It  was  not  that  for  a  few  keyed-up  moments  I  imagined  all  exist- 
ence as  beautiful,  but  that  my  inner  vision  was  cleared  to  the  truth 
so  that  I  saw  the  actual  loveliness  which  is  always  there,  but  which 
we  so  rarely  perceive;  and  I  knew  that  every  man,  woman,  bird,  and 
tree,  every  living  thing  before  me,  was  extravagantly  beautiful,  and 
extravagantly  important.  And  as  I  beheld,  my  heart  melted  out  of 
me  in  a  rapture  of  love  and  delight.  A  nurse  was  walking  past;  the 
wind  caught  a  strand  of  her  hair  and  blew  it  out  in  a  momentary 
gleam  of  sunshine,  and  never  in  my  life  before  had  I  seen  how  beau- 
tiful beyond  all  belief  is  a  woman's  hair.  Nor  had  I  ever  guessed 
how  marvelous  it  is  for  a  human  being  to  walk.  As  for  the  internes 
in  their  white  suits,  I  had  never  realized  before  the  whiteness  of 
white  linen;  but  much  more  than  that,  I  had  never  so  much  as 
dreamed  of  the  beauty  of  young  mannood.  A  little  sparrow  chirped 
and  flew  to  a  near-by  branch,  and  I  honestly  believe  that  only  "the 
morning  stars  singing  together,  and  the  sons  of  God  shouting  for 
joy"  can  in  the  least  express  the  ecstasy  of  a  bird's  flight.  I  cannot 
express  it,  but  I  have  seen  it. 

Once  out  of  all  the  gray  days  of  my  life  I  have  looked  into  the 
heart  of  reality;  I  have  witnessed  the  truth;  I  have  seen  life  as  it 
really  is  —  ravishingly,  ecstatically,  madly  beautiful,  and  filled  to 
overflowing  with  a  wild  joy,  and  a  value  unspeakable.  For  those 
glorified  moments  I  was  in  love  with  every  living  thing  before  me  — 
the  trees  in  the  wind,  the  little  birds  flying,  the  nurses,  the  internes, 
the  people  who  came  and  went.  There  was  nothing  that  was  alive 
that  was  not  a  miracle.  Just  to  be  alive  was  in  itself  a  miracle.  My 
very  soul  flowed  out  of  me  in  a  great  joy.1 

The  mystic  experience  is  important  in  the  study  of  religion 
because  it  has  so  frequently  given  those  who  have  had  it  a 
very  real  feeling  of  "cosmic  consciousness."  The  individual 
feels  "for  one  luminously  transparent  conscious  moment,"  at 
one  with  the  universe;  he  has  a  realization  at  once  rapturous 
and  tranquil  of  the  passionate  and  wonderful  significance  of 
things.  He  has  moved  "from  the  chill  periphery  to  the  radi- 
ant core."  All  the  discrepancies  which  bestrew  ordinary  life 
are  absent.  All  the  negations  of  disappointment,  all  conflicts 

»  "Twenty  Minutes  of  Reality,"  The  Atlantic  Monthly,  vol.  117,  p.  592. 


RELIGION  AND  RELIGIOUS  EXPERIENCE    289 

of  desire  disappear.     The  mystic  lives  perfection  at   first 
hand: 

"The  One  remains,  tlie  many  change  and  pass, 
Heaven's  light  forever  shines,  Earth's  shadows  fly, 
Life,  like  a  dome  of  many  colored  glass, 
Stains  the  white  radiance  of  eternity." 

This  sense  of  splendid  unity  in  which  all  the  divisive  and 
corroding  elements  of  selfhood  are  obliterated  has  "to  those 
who  have  been  there "  no  refutation.  " It  is,"  writes  William 
James,  "an  open  question  whether  mystic  states  may  not  be 
superior  points  of  view,  windows  through  which  the  mind 
looks  out  on  a  more  extensive  and  inclusive  world." 

Whatever  be  the  logical  validity  of  the  intense  mystical 
insight,  of  his  singular  gift  for  a  vivid  and  intimate  union  with 
eternity  which  has  been  known  by  so  many  mystics,  the  fruits 
of  this  insight  are  undeniable.  During  such  a  vision  the  world 
ts  perfect.  There  is  no  fever  or  confusion,  but  rapture  and 
rest.  And  to  some  degree,  at  a  religious  service,  a  momentous 
crisis,  joy  at  deliverance  or  resignation  at  calamity,  during 
beatific  interludes  of  friendship  or  of  love,  men  have  felt  a 
clear  enveloping  oneness  with  divinity. 

Such  states  of  intense  religious  experience,  however,  are  as 
transient  as  they  are  ineffable.  Though  they  recur,  they  are 
not  continuous,  and  something  more  than  occasional  vivid 
unions  with  the  divine  enter  into  the  constant  perfection  with 
which  the  world,  as  it  appears  to  the  religious  man,  is  endowed. 
He  feels  himself,  in  the  first  place,  to  be  part  of  a  world  scheme 
in  which  ultimate  perfection  is  secured.  It  has  already  been 
pointed  out  that  any  individual  human  life  is  characterized 
by  negation,  conflict,  and  disappointment.  Our  lives  seem 
largely  to  be  at  the  mercy  of  circumstance.  Our  inheritance 
is  fixed  for  us  without  our  connivance  in  the  matter;  accident 
determines  in  which  social  environment  we  happen  to  be  born. 
And  these  two  facts  are  the  chief  determinants  of  our  careers. 
Even  when  successful  we  realize  either  the  emptiness  of  the 
prize  we  had  desired,  or  the  distance  we  are  in  reality  from 


290  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

the  goal  we  had  set  ourselves.  *  Generalizing  thus  from  his 
own  experience,  the  individual  notes  the  similar  disheartening 
discrepancies  throughout  human  life.  He  sees  the  good 
suffer,  and  the  wicked  prosper;  the  innocent  die,  and  the 
guilty  escape.  Disease  is  no  respecter  of  persons,  and  death 
comes  to  the  just  and  the  unjust  alike. 

Wherefore  do  the  wicked  live,  become  old,  yea,  are  mighty  in  power? 
Their  seed  is  established  in  their  sight  with  them,  and  their  offspring 

before  their  eyes. 

Their  houses  are  safe  from  fear,  neither  is  the  rod  of  God  upon  them. 
Their  bull  gendereth  and  faileth  not;  their  cow  calveth  and  casteth 

not  her  calf. 

They  send  forth  their  little  ones  like  a  flock,  and  their  children  dance. 
They  take  the  timbrel  and  harp,  and  rejoice  at  the  sound  of  the 

organ. 
They  spend  their  days  in  wealth,  and  in  a  moment  go  down  to  the 

grave. 
Therefore  they  say  unto  God;  depart  from  us,  for  we  desire  not  the 

knowledge  of  thy  ways. 
What  is  the  Almighty  that  we  should  serve  him?    And  what  profit 

should  we  have  if  we  pray  unto  him?  l 

In  contrast,  in  the  religious  experience  man  feels  himself  to 
be  a  part  of  a  world  scheme  in  which  justice  and  righteousness 
are  assured  by  an  incontestable  and  invulnerable  power"; 
"God 's  in  his  Heaven;  all's  right  with  the  world."  Despite 
the  grounds  he  has  for  doubt,  Job  robustly  avers:  "Though 
he  slay  me,  yet  will  I  trust  in  him."  Calamities  are  but  tem- 
porary; God  will  bring  all  things  to  a  beautiful  fruition. 

Or  a  man  may  feel  that  the  evils  he  or  others  experience 
here  are  not  real  evils,  that,  seen  sub  specie  ceternitatis,  they 
would  cease  to  be  regarded  as  such.  He  may  feel  that  God 
moves  hi  a  mysterious  way  his  wonders  to  perform,  that 
"somehow  good  may  come  of  ill."  He  may  feel,  as  does  the 
Christian  believer,  that  all  the  evils  and  pains  unjustly  experi- 
enced in  this  world  will  be  adjusted  in  the  next.  Whatever 
be  my  privations  from  earthly  good,  "in  my  Father's  house 

1  Job,  chap.  xxi. 


RELIGION  AND  RELIGIOUS  EXPERIENCE    291 

are  many  mansions."  Immortality  is,  indeed,  the  religious 
man's  faith  in  a  second  chance.  The  surety  of  a  world  to 
come,  in  which  the  blessed  shall  live  in  eternal  bliss,  is  a  com- 
pensation and  a  redress  for  the  ills  and  frustrations  of  life  in 
this  world.  Whatever  be  the  seeming  ills  or  injustices  of  life, 
there  is  eventual  retribution,  both  to  the  just  and  the  unjust. 
Once  more  to  quote  Emerson: 

And  yet  the  compensations  of  calamity  are  made  apparent  to  the 
understanding  also,  after  long  intervals  of  time.  A  fever,  a  mutila- 
tion, a  cruel  disappointment,  a  loss  of  wealth,  a  loss  of  friends,  seems 
at  the  moment  unpaid  loss,  and  unpayable.  But  the  sure  years 
reveal  the  deep  remedial  force  that  underlies  all  facts.  The  death 
of  a  dear  friend,  wife,  brother,  lover,  which  seemed  nothing  but  pri- 
vation, somewhat  later  assumes  the  aspect  of  a  guide  or  genius;  for 
it  commonly  operates  revolutions  in  our  way  of  life,  terminates  an 
epoch  of  infancy  or  of  youth  which  was  waiting  to  be  closed,  breaks 
up  a  wonted  occupation,  or  a  household,  or  style  of  living,  and 
allows  the  formation  of  new  ones  more  friendly  to  the  growth  of 
character.  It  permits  or  constrains  the  formation  of  new  acquaint- 
ances, and  the  reception  of  new  influences  that  prove  of  the  first 
importance  to  the  next  years;  and  the  man  or  woman  who  would 
have  remained  a  sunny  garden  flower,  with  no  room  for  its  roots  and 
too  much  sunshine  for  its  head,  by  the  falling  of  the  walls  and  the 
neglect  of  the  gardener,  is  made  the  banian  of  the  forest,  yielding 
shade  and  fruit  to  wide  neighbourhoods  of  men.1 

On  a  larger  scale,  from  the  cosmic  rather  than  from  the 
personal  point  of  view,  an  individual,  gifted  with  a  large  and 
charitable  interest  in  the  future  of  mankind,  is  secured  and 
sustained  by  the  feeling  that  he  is  a  part  of  that  procession 
headed  to  the  "one  far-off  divine  event  to  which  the  whole 
creation  moves."  The  lugubrious  picture  of  an  utterly  mean- 
ingless world,  blind,  purposeless,  and  heartless,  which  mate- 
rialistic science  reveals,  is  sufficient  to  wreck  the  equanimity 
of  a  sensitive  and  thoughtful  mind. 

That  is  the  sting  of  it,  that  in  the  vast  drifting  of  the  cosmic 
weather,  though  many  a  jewelled  shore  appears,  and  many  an  en- 
chanted cloud-bank  floats  away,  long  lingering  ere  it  be  dissolved  — 
i  Emerson:  Eiuay  on  Compensation. 


292  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

even  as  our  world  now  lingers  for  our  joy  —  yet  when  these  transient 
products  are  gone,  nothing,  absolutely  nothing  remains.  Dead  and 
gone  are  they,  gone  utterly  from  the  very  sphere  and  room  of  being. 
Without  an  echo,  without  a  memory;  without  an  influence  on  aught 
that  may  come  after,  to  make  it  care  for  similar  ideals.  This  utter 
wreck  and  tragedy  is  of  the  essence  of  scientific  materialism,  as  at 
present  understood.1 

A  belief  that  a  divine  power  governs  the  universe,  that  all 
these  miscellaneous  and  inexplicable  happenings  will  be 
gathered  up  into  a  smooth  and  ultimate  perfection,  gives 
faith,  comfort,  and  solace.  We  are  on  the  side  of  the  angels,  or 
rather  the  angels  are  on  our  side.  Human  passion,  purpose, 
and  endeavor  are  not  wasted.  They  are  small  but  not  alto- 
gether negligible  contributions  to  eventual  cosmic  good.  And 
good  is  eventual.  Perfection  may  be  long  delayed,  but  God's 
presence  assures  it.  "  Weeping  may  endure  for  a  night,  but 
joy  cometh  in  the  morning." 

A  world  with  a  God  in  it  to  say  the  last  word  may  indeed  burn  up 
or  freeze,  but  we  then  think  of  Him  as  still  mindful  of  the  old  ideals, 
and  sure  to  bring  them  elsewhere  to  fruition;  so  that  where  He  is, 
tragedy  is  only  provisional  and  partial,  and  shipwreck  and  dissolu- 
tion not  the  absolutely  final  things.* 

Amid  tragic  errors  and  pitiful  disillusions,  men  have  yearned 
for  "a  benediction  perfect  and  complete  where  they  might 
cease  to  suffer  and  desire."  This  perfection  religion  has,  as 
we  have  seen,  accorded  them  in  various  ways.  Some  have 
found  it  in  the  immediate  vision,  the  ecstatic  union  with  the 
divine  that,  in  intense  degree,  is  peculiarly  the  mystic's.  Some 
have  found  it  in  the  assured  belief  that  evil  is  itself  an  illu- 
sion, and,  if  rightly  conceived,  a  beautiful  dark  shadow  to  set 
off  by  contrast  the  high  lights  of  a  divinely  ordered  cosmos,  a 
minor  note  giving  lyric  and  lovely  poignancy  to  the  celestial 
music.  Some  have  rested  their  faith  in  a  perfect  world  not 
here,  but  hereafter,  "where  the  blessed  would  enter  eternal 
bliss  with  God  their  master."  Thus  man  has  in  religion  found 
i  James:  Pragmatism,  p.  105.  *  Ibid.,  p.  106. 


RELIGION  AND  RELIGIOUS  EXPERIENCE    293 

the  fulfillment  of  his  ideals,  which  always  outrun  the  actual- 
ities amid  which  he  lives.  In  the  religious  experience,  in  all  of 
its  forms  throughout  the  ages,  man  has  had  the  experience 
of  perfection  at  first  hand,  in  the  immediate  and  rich  in- 
tensity of  the  mystic  ecstasy,  in  the  serene  faith  of  a  life- 
long intuition  or  of  a  reasoned  belief  in  the  ultimate  di- 
vinely assured  lightness  of  things. 

Besides  experiencing  perfection,  man  has,  in  the  sense  of 
security  and  trust  afforded  by  the  religious  experience,  found 
release  from  the  fret,  the  fever,  the  compulsion,  and  constric- 
tion under  which  so  much  of  life  must  be  lived.  Whatever 
happens,  the  truly  devout  man  has  no  fears  or  qualms.  He 
has  attained  equanimity;  the  Lord  is  his  shepherd;  he  shall 
not  want.  There  is  a  serenity  experienced  by  the  genuinely 
faithful  that  the  faithless  may  well  envy.  God  is  the  believ- 
er's eternal  watcher;  a  wise  and  merciful  Providence,  his  in- 
finite guarantee. 

Whoever  not  only  says  but  feels,  "God's  will  be  done"  is  mailed 
against  every  weakness;  and  the  whole  historic  array  of  martyrs, 
missionaries  and  religious  reformers  is  there  to  prove  the  tranquil- 
mindedness,  under  naturally  agitating  or  distressing  circumstances, 
which  self -surrender  brings.1 

But  peace  is  attained  not  only  through  faith  in  the  fulfill- 
ment of  desire,  but  hi  a  marked  lessening  in  the  tension  of 
desire  itself,  in  a  large  and  spacious  freedom  attained  through 
release  from  the  confinement  of  self.  We  saw  in  the  chapter 
on  the  Consciousness  of  Self  how  much  exertion  and  energy 
may  be  devoted  to  the  enhancement  of  Self  through  fame, 
achievement,  social  distinction,  power,  or  possession.  We 
saw  how,  in  the  frustration  of  self,  the  germ  of  great  tragedy 
lay.  From  the  tragedy  and  bitterness  of  such  frustration 
men  have  often  been  reassured  by  a  genuine  conversion  to 
the  religious  life.  Through  the  negation  of  self  rather  than 
through  its  fulfillment  men  have  found  solace  and  rest.  And 

1  James:  Varieties  of  Religious  Experience,  p.  286. 


294  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

this  negation,  when  it  takes  religious  form,  has  consisted  in 
a  rapturous  submission  to  the  will  of  God. 

"Outside,  the  world  is  wild  and  passionate. 

Man's  weary  laughter  and  his  sick  despair 
Entreat  at  their  impenetrable  gate, 

They  heed  no  voices  in  their  dream  of  prayer. 

"Calm,  sad,  secure,  with  faces  worn  and  mild, 

Surely  their  choice  of  vigil  is  the  best. 
Yea!  for  our  roses  fade,  the  world  is  wild; 
But  there  beside  the  altar  there  is  rest."  * 

Experiences  which  frequently  find  religious  expression. 
The  religious  experience,  as  pointed  out  in  the  beginning  of 
this  discussion,  has  its  roots  in  the  same  impulses  which  cause 
men  to  love  and  to  hate,  to  be  jubilant  and  sorrowful,  exalted 
and  depressed.  All  these  human  experiences  sometimes  take 
a  religious  form,  that  is,  their  expressions  have  some  reference 
to  the  supernatural  and  the  divine.  We  find,  in  surveying  the 
history  of  religion,  that  certain  experiences  more  than  others 
tend  to  find  religious  expression.  We  shall  examine  a  few  of 
the  chief  of  these. 

Need  and  impotence.  An  awed,  almost  frightened  sense  of 
dependence  overcomes  even  the  most  robust  and  healthy- 
minded  man  when  he  sees  the  forces  of  Nature  suddenly  un- 
loosed on  a  magnificent  scale.  A  terrific  peal  of  thunder,  an 
earthquake  or  a  cyclone  will  send  thrills  of  terror  through  the 
normally  calm  and  self-sufiicient.  Even  apart  from  such 
vivid  and  terrifying  examples  of  the  range  and  scale  of  non- 
human  power,  there  comes  to  the  reflective  a  sense  of  the 
frailty  of  human  life,  of  the  utter  dependability  of  all  human 
purposes  and  plans  on  conditions  beyond  human  control.  In 
our  most  fundamental  industry,  agriculture,  an  untimely  frost 
can  undo  the  work  of  the  most  ingenious  industry  and  thrift. 
A  tornado  or  a  snowstorm  can  disorganize  the  cunning  and 
subtle,  swift  mechanisms  of  communication  which  men  have 
invented.  In  the  field  of  humanly  built-up  relations,  again,  a 

1  Ernest  Dowson:  Nuns  of  the  Perpetual  Adoration. 


RELIGION  AND  RELIGIOUS  EXPERIENCE    295 

fortune  or  a  friendship  may  depend  on  some  chance  meeting; 
a  man's  profession  and  ideals  are  fixed  by  a  single  fortuitous 
conversation,  by  a  chance  encouragement,  opportunity  or 
frustration. 

There  is  thus  a  psychological  though  perhaps  not  literal 
truth  in  the  figure  of  Fate,  or  in  the  metaphor  that  speaks  of 
human  destiny  as  lying  on  the  knees  of  the  gods.  Action  so 
often  wanders  from  intent,  so  much  in  the  best-laid  plans  is  at 
the  mercy  of  external  circumstance!  A  creature  whose  being 
can  be  snuffed  out  in  a  moment,  whose  life  is  less  than  an 
instant  in  the  magnificent  perspective  of  eternity,  comes  not 
unnaturally  to  be  aware  of  his  own  insignificance  as  compared 
with  those  vast  forces,  some  auspicious  and  some  terrible, 
which  are  patently  afoot  in  the  world. 

But  as  patent  a  fact  as  man's  impotence  is  his  desire.  The 
individual  realizes  how  powerless  is  a  human  being  to  fulfill, 
independently  of  external  forces,  those  impulses  with  which 
these  same  inexplicable  forces  have  launched  him  into  the 
world.  Thus  do  we  feel  even  to-day  when  we  have  learned 
that  the  forces  of  Nature,  obdurate  to  the  ignorant,  yet  be- 
come flexible  and  fruitful  under  the  knowing  manipulation 
of  science.  We  realize  that  despite  our  cunning  and  contriv- 
ance, our  successes  are,  as  it  were,  largely  matters  of  grace; 
the  changes  we  can  make  in  Nature  are  as  nothing  to  the  slow, 
gradual  processes  by  which  Nature  makes  mountains  into 
molehills,  builds  and  destroys  continents,  develops  man  out  of 
the  lower  animals,  and,  by  varying  climates  and  topogra- 
phies, affects  the  destinies  of  nations. 

To  primitive  man  the  sense  of  impotence  and  need  were  not 
derived  from  any  general  reflections  upon  the  insecurity  of 
man's  place  in  the  cosmos,  but  rather  from  the  sharp  pressure 
of  practical  necessity. 

The  helplessness  of  primitive  man  set  down  in  the  midst  of  a  uni- 
verse of  which  he  knew  not  the  laws,  may  perhaps  be  brought  home 
to  the  mind  of  modern  man,  if  we  compare  the  universe  to  a  vast 
workshop  full  of  the  most  various  and  highly-complicated  machinery 


296  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

working  at  full  speed.  The  machinery,  if  properly  handled,  is  ca- 
pable of  producing  everything  that  the  heart  of  primitive  man  can 
wish  for,  but  also,  if  he  sets  hand  to  the  wrong  part  of  the  machin- 
ery, is  capable  of  whirling  him  off  between  its  wheels,  and  crushing 
and  killing  him  in  its  inexorable  and  ruthless  movement.  Further, 
primitive  man  cannot  decline  to  submit  himself  to  the  perilous  test: 
he  must  make  his  experiments  or  perish,  and  even  so  his  survival  is 
conditional  on  his  selecting  the  right  part  of  the  machine  to  handle. 
Nor  can  he  take  his  own  time  and  study  the  dangerous  mechanism 
long  and  carefully  before  setting  his  hand  to  it:  his  needs  are  pressing 
and  his  action  must  be  immediate.1 

The  very  food  of  primitive  man  was  to  him  as  precarious  as 
it  was  essential.  His  lif  e  was  practically  at  the  mercy  of  wind 
and  rain  and  sun.  His  food  and  shelter  were  desperately 
lucky  chances.  Not  having  attained  as  yet  to  a  conception  of 
the  impersonality  of  Nature,  he  regarded  these  forces  which 
helped  and  hindered  him  as  friendly  and  alien  powers  which 
it  was  in  the  imperative  interests  of  his  own  welfare  to  placate 
and  propitiate.  It  was  in  this  urgent  sense  of  helplessness  and 
need  that  there  were  developed  the  two  outstanding  modes  of 
communication  with  the  supernatural,  sacrifice  and  prayer. 

Primitive  man  conceived  his  universe  to  be  governed  by 
essentially  human  powers;  powers,  of  course,  on  a  grand  scale, 
but  human  none  the  less,  with  the  same  weaknesses,  moods, 
and  humors  as  human  beings  themselves.  They  could  be 
flattered  and  cajoled;  they  could  be  bribed  and  paid;  they 
could  be  moved  to  tenderness,  generosity,  and  pity.  "  Holi- 
ness," says  Socrates  in  one  of  Plato's  dialogues,  "  is  an  art  hi 
which  gods  and  men  do  business  with  each  other.  .  .  .  Sacri- 
fice is  giving  to  the  gods,  prayer  is  asking  of  them."  2  In 
Frazer's  Golden  Bough  one  finds  the  remarkably  diverse  sacri- 
ficial rites  by  which  men  have  sought  to  win  the  favor  of  the 
divine.  Primitive  man  believed  literally  that  the  universe 
was  governed  by  superhuman  personal  powers;  he  believed 
literally  that  these  are  human  in  their  motives.  He  believed 

1  Jevons:  An  Introduction  to  the  History  of  Religion,  p.  17. 
*  See  Plato's  Euthyphro. 


RELIGION  AND  RELIGIOUS  EXPERIENCE    297 

in  consequence  that  sacrifices  to  the  gods  would  help  him  to 
control  the  controlling  powers  of  Nature  for  his  own  good, 
just  as  modern  man  believes  that  an  application  of  the  laws  of 
electricity  and  mechanics  will  help  him  to  control  the  natural 
world  for  his  own  purposes.  The  sacrifices  of  primitive  man 
were  immensely  practical  hi  character;  they  were  made  at  the 
crucial  moments  and  pivotal  crises  of  life,  at  sowing  and  at 
harvest  time,  at  the  initiation  of  the  young  into  the  responsi- 
bilities of  maturity,  at  times  of  pestilence,  famine,  or  danger. 
The  gods  were  given  the  choice  part  of  a  meal;  the  prize  calf ; 
in  some  cases,  human  sacrifices;  the  sacrifice,  moreover,  of  the 
beautiful  and  best.  The  chief  sacrificial  rites  of  almost  all 
primitive  peoples  are  connected  with  food,  the  sustainer,  and 
procreation  or  birth,  the  perpetuator,  of  life. 
As  Jane  Harrison  puts  it: 

If  man  the  individual  is  to  live,  he  must  have  food;  if  his  race  is  to 
persist,  he  must  have  children.  To  live  and  to  cause  to  live,  to  eat 
food  and  beget  children,  these  were  the  primary  wants  of  man  in  the 
past,  and  they  will  be  the  primary  wants  of  man  in  the  future,  so 
long  as  the  world  lasts.  Other  things  may  be  added  to  enrich  and 
beautify  life,  but  unless  these  wants  are  first  satisfied,  humanity 
itself  must  cease  to  exist.  These  two  things,  therefore,  were  what 
men  chiefly  sought  to  procure  by  the  performance  of  magical  rites 
for  the  regulation  of  the  seasons.  . .  .  What  he  realizes  first  and  fore- 
most is  that  at  certain  times  the  animals,  and  still  more  the  plants, 
which  form  his  food,  appear,  at  certain  others  they  disappear.  It  is 
these  times  that  become  the  central  points,  the  focusses  of  his  inter- 
est, and  the  dates  of  his  religious  festivals.1 

Sacrifice  is  only  one  way  primitive  man  contrives  of  winning 
the  favor  of  the  gods  toward  the  satisfaction  of  his  desires 
Another  common  method  is  prayer.  In  its  crudest  form 
prayer  is  a  direct  petition  from  the  individual  to  divinity  for 
the  grant  of  a  specific  favor.  The  individual  seeks  a  kindness 
from  a  supernatural  power  whose  motives  are  human,  and 
who  may,  therefore,  be  moved  by  human  appeals;  whose 
power  is  superhuman  and  can  therefore  fulfill  requests. 

1  Jane  Harrison:  Ancient  Art  and  Ritual,  p.  31. 


298  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

Prayer  may  become  profoundly  spiritualized,  but  in  its  primi- 
tive form  it  is,  like  sacrifice,  a  certain  way  of  getting  things 
done.  They  are  both  to  primitive  man  largely  what  our 
science  is  to  us. 

Both  prayer  and  sacrifice  arise  in  primitive  man's  need  and 
helplessness  and  terror  before  mysterious  supernatural  pow- 
ers, but  they  may  rise,  hi  the  higher  form  of  religion,  to  genuine 
nobility,  from  this  crass  commerce  with  divinity,  this  religion 
of  bargaining  and  quid  pro  quo.  Sacrifice  may  change  from  a 
desperate  reluctant  offering  made  to  please  a  jealous  god,  to  a 
thanksgiving  and  a  jubilation,  an  overflowing  of  happiness, 
gratitude,  and  good-will. 

Greek  writers  of  the  fifth  century  B.C.  have  a  way  of  speaking  of 
an  attitude  toward  religion,  as  though  it  were  wholly  a  thing  of  joy 
and  confidence,  a  friendly  fellowship  with  the  gods,  whose  service  is 
but  a  high  festival  for  man.  In  Homer,  sacrifice  is  but,  as  it  were, 
the  signal  for  a  banquet  of  abundant  roast  flesh  and  sweet  wine;  we 
hear  nothing  of  fasting,  cleansing,  and  atonement.  This  we  might 
explain  as  part  of  the  general  splendid  unreality  of  the  Greek  saga, 
but  sober  historians  of  the  fifth  century  B.C.  express  the  same  spirit. 
Thucydides  is  by  nature  no  reveller,  yet  religion  is  to  him,  in  the 
main,  a  rest  from  toil.  He  makes  Pericles  say  of  the  Athenians: 
Moreover  we  have  provided  for  our  spirit  very  many  opportunities 
of  recreation,  by  the  celebration  of  games  and  sacrifices  throughout 
the  year.1 

Sacrifice  may  become  spiritualized,  as  it  is  in  Christianity, 
"instead  of  he-goats  and  she-goats,  there  are  substituted  offer- 
ings of  the  heart  for  all  these  vain  oblations."  The  sacrificial 
heart  has  at  all  times  been  accounted  germane  to  nobility. 
There  is  something  akin  to  religion  in  the  laying  down  of  a 
life  for  a  cause  or  a  country  or  a  friend,  hi  surrendering  one's 
self  for  others.  It  is  this  power  and  beauty  of  renunciation 
that  is  the  spiritual  value  behind  all  the  rituals  of  sacrifice 
that  still  persist,  as  in  the  sacraments  of  Christianity.  It  is 
the  tragic  necessity  of  self-negation  that  haloes,  even  in  secu- 
lar life,  the  sacrificial  attitude: 

1  Jane  Harrison:  Prolegomena  to  Greek  Religion,  p.  1. 


RELIGION  AND  RELIGIOUS  EXPERIENCE    299 

But  there  is  in  resignation  a  further  good  element.  Even  real 
goods  when  they  are  attainable  ought  not  to  be  fretfully  desired. 
To  every  man  comes  sooner  or  later  the  great  renunciation.  For 
the  young  there  is  nothing  unattainable;  a  good  thing  desired  with 
the  whole  force  of  a  passionate  will,  and  yet  unattainable,  is  to  them 
not  credible.  Yet  by  death,  by  illness,  by  poverty,  or,  by  the  voice 
of  duty,  we  must  learn,  each  one  of  us,  that  the  world  was  not  made 
for  us,  and  that,  however  beautiful  may  be  the  things  we  crave, 
Fate  may  nevertheless  forbid  them.  It  is  the  part  of  courage,  when 
misfortune  comes,  to  bear  without  repining  the  ruin  of  our  hopes, 
to  turn  away  our  thoughts  from  vain  regrets.  This  degree  of  sub- 
mission to  power  is  not  only  just  and  right;  it  is  the  very  gate  of  wis- 
dom.1 

The  spiritual  meaning  and  value  of  sacrifice  is  thus  seen  to 
lie  in  self-surrender.  The  human  being,  born  into  a  world 
where  choices  must  be  made,  must  make  continual  abnega- 
tion. And  when  the  temporary  good  is  surrendered  in  the 
maintenance  of  an  ideal,  sacrifice  becomes  genuinely  spiritual 
in  character. 

Prayer,  also,  becomes  genuinely  spiritual  in  its  values  when 
one  ceases  to  believe  in  its  practical  efficacy  and  comes  to 
think  it  shameful  to  traffic  with  the  divine.  Prayer  beauti- 
fully illustrates  a  point  previously  noted,  how  speech  oscillates 
between  the  expression  of  feeling  and  the  conveyance  of  ideas. 
Beginning  in  primitive  religion  as  a  crude  and  cheap  petition 
for  favors,  it  becomes  in  more  spiritual  religious  experience,  a 
lyric  cry  of  emotion,  a  tranquil  and  serene  expression  of  the 
soul's  desire.  Prayer  is,  moreover,  "religion  in  act."  That 
deep  sense  of  an  awed  relationship  to  divine  power  which  was, 
in  the  beginning  of  this  discussion,  noted  as  constituting  cer- 
tainly one  of  the  outstanding  characteristics  of  the  religious 
experience,  finds  its  most  adequate  emotional  expression  in 
prayer. 

Religion  is  nothing  [writes  Auguste  SabatierJ  if  it  be  not  the  vital 

act  by  which  the  entire  mind  seeks  to  save  itself  by  clinging  to  the 

principle  from  which  it  draws  life.    This  act  is  prayer,  by  which  I 

understand  no  vain  exercise  of  words,  no  mere  repetition  of  certain 

1  Bcrtrand  Russell:  Philosophical  Essays,  p.  65. 


300  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

sacred  formulas,  but  the  very  movement  itself  of  the  soul,  putting 
itself  in  a  personal  relation  of  contact  with  the  mysterious  power  of 
which  it  feels  the  presence  —  it  may  be  even  before  it  has  a  name 
by  which  to  call  it.  Wherever  this  ulterior  prayer  is  lacking,  there 
is  no  religion;  wherever,  on  the  other  hand,  this  prayer  rises  and 
stirs  the  soul,  even  in  the  absence  of  forms  or  doctrines,  we  have 
religion.1 

In  prayer,  furthermore,  we  may  hope  to  find  not  the  ful- 
fillment of  our  desires,  but  what  our  desires  really  are.  We 
are  released  temporarily  from  tension  of  temporal  and  selfish 
longings.  We  hold  a  tranquil  and  reverential  speech  with  a 
power  not  ourselves,  and  in  communion  with  the  infinite 
purge  ourselves  of  the  dross  of  immediate  personal  needs. 
In  such  a  peaceful  interlude  we  may  find  at  once  clarity  and 
rest.  Prayer,  at  its  highest,  might  be  defined  as  audible  medi- 
tation, controlled  by  the  sense  of  the  divinity  of  the  power  we 
are  addressing.  So  that  the  truly  spiritual  man  prays  not  for 
the  fulfillment  of  his  own  accidental  longings,  but  pleads 
rather:  "Let  the  words  of  my  mouth  and  the  meditations  of 
my  heart  be  acceptable  in  thy  sight,  O  Lord,  my  strength  and 
my  redeemer." 

Fear  and  awe.  Man's  attitude  toward  the  divine  was 
noted  to  have  arisen  partly  in  his  feeling  of  dependence  on 
personal  forces  incomparably  superior  to  himself,  and  in  his 
urgent  need  for  winning  their  favor.  In  primitive  man  this 
sense  of  dependence  was  certainly  bound  up  with  a  feeling  of 
fear. 

It  must  be  borne  in  mind  that  uncivilized  peoples  had 
pathetically  little  understanding  or  control  of  the  forces  of 
Nature.  In  consequence  on  being  afflicted  with  some  sudden 
catastrophe  of  famine  or  disease,  on  experiencing  a  sudden 
revelation  in  storm,  wind,  or  volcanic  eruption,  of  the  terrible 
magnificence  of  elemental  forces,  he  must  have  been  struck 
with  dread.  He  was  living  in  a  world  that  appeared  to  him 
much  less  ordered  and  regular  than  ours  appears  to  us.  His 

1  A.  Sabatier:  Eaguiaae  d'une  Philosophic  de  la  Religion  (ed.  1897),  pp. 
24-26. 


LIBRARY 

0TATV  TBACHERB  COLLWt 
•  ANTA   BARBARA.  CAL.IFQRNI 

RELIGION  AND  RELIGIOUS  EXPJEBIENCE^BOl- • 

prayers  and  sacrifices  were  not  always  friendly  and  confidential 
intercourse  with  the  gods;  they  were  as  often  ways  of  averting 
the  evils  of  malicious  and  terrifying  demons.  The  enemies  of 
religion  have  been  fond  of  pointing  out  how  much  of  it  has 
been  a  quaking  fear  of  the  supernatural.  It  is  in  this  spirit 
that  Lucretius's  bitter  attack  is  conceived. 

When  the  life  of  man  lay  foul  to  see  and  grovelling  upon  the  earth, 
crushed  by  the  weight  of  religion,  which  showed  her  face  from  the 
realms  of  heaven,  lowering  upon  mortals  with  dreadful  mien,  't  was 
a  man  of  Greece  who  dared  first  to  raise  his  mortal  eyes  to  meet  her, 
and  first  to  stand  forth  to  meet  her;  him  neither  the  stories  of  the 
gods  nor  thunderbolts  checked,  nor  the  sky  with  its  revengeful  roar, 
but  all  the  more  spurred  the  eager  daring  of  his  mind  to  yearn  to 
be  the  first  to  burst  through  the  close-set  bolts  upon  the  doors  of 
nature.1 

Primitive  man  feared  the  gods  as  much  as  he  needed  them. 
Jane  Harrison  points  out,  for  example,  that  as  great  a  part  of 
Greek  religion  was  given  over  to  the  exorcising  of  the  evil  and 
jealous  spirits  of  the  underworld,  as  in  friendly  communion 
with  the  beautiful  and  gracious  Olympians. 

But  what  appears  in  the  ignorant  and  harassed  savage  as 
fear  may  be  transformed  in  civilized  man  into  awe.  Long 
after  man's  crouching  physical  terror  of  the  divine  has  passed 
away,  he  may  still  live  awed  by  the  ultimate  power  that  orders 
the  universe.  He  may,  "  at  twilight,  or  in  a  mountain  gorge," 
at  a  cafion  or  waterfall,  experience  an  involuntary  thrill  and 
breathlessness,  a  deepened  sense  of  the  divinity  which  so 
orders  these  things.  He  may  have  the  same  feeling  at  the 
crises  of  We,  at  birth,  disease,  and  death.  He  may  sense  on 
occasion  that  overwhelming  and  infinite  power  of  which  Job 
becomes  aware,  as  he  listens  to  the  voice  out  of  the  whirlwind: 

Who  hath  divided  a  water  course  for  the  overflowing  of  waters,  or  a 

way  for  the  lightning  of  thunder? 
To  cause  it  to  rain  on  the  earth,  where  no  man  is;  on  the  wilderness, 

wherein  there  is  no  man; 

1  Lucretius:  De  Rerun  Natura,  book  I,  lines  28-38. 


302  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

To  satisfy  the  desolate  and  waste  ground ;  and  to  cause  the  bud  of  the 

tender  herb  to  spring  forth?  . . . 
Canst  thou  bind  the  sweet  influences  of  the  Pleiades,  or  loose  the 

bands  of  Orion?  .  . . 
Knowest  thou  the  ordinances  of  Heaven?     Canst  thou  set  the 

dominion  thereof  in  the  earth?  .  .  . 
Canst  thou  send  lightnings,  that  they  may  go  and  say  unto  thee, 

Here  we  are? 
Who  hath  put  wisdom  in  the  inward  parts?    Or  who  hath  given 

understanding  to  the  heart? 

Where  man  experiences  such  awe,  he  will  become  reveren- 
tial, and,  if  articulate,  will  express  his  reverence  in  prayer, 
again  not  the  prayer  of  practical  requests  for  favors  from  God, 
but  a  hushed  meditation  upon  the  assured  eternity  in  which 
the  precarious  and  finite  lives  of  men  are  set. 

Regret,  remorse  —  Repentance  and  penance.  Regret  is  a 
sufficiently  common  human  experience.  There  are  for  most 
men  wistful  backward  glances  in  which  they  realize  what 
might  have  been,  what  might  have  been  done,  what  might 
have  been  accomplished.  For  many  this  never  rises  above 
pique  and  bitterness  over  personal  failure,  a  chagrin^  as  it 
were,  over  having  made  the  wrong  move.  But  to  some  regret 
may  take  on  a  deeply  spiritual  quality.  Instead  of  regretting 
merely  the  successes  which  he  hoped,  as  it  proved  vainly,  to 
attain,  a  man  may  become  passionately  aware  of  his  own 
moral  and  spiritual  shortcomings.  This  sense  of  dereliction 
and  delinquency  may  take  extreme  forms.  James  quotes  a 
reminiscence  of  Father  Gratry,  a  Catholic  philosopher: 

.  .  .  All  day  long  without  respite  I  suffered  an  incurable  and  intol- 
erable desolation,  verging  on  despair.  I  thought  myself,  in  fact, 
rejected  by  God,  lost,  damned!  I  felt  something  like  the  suffering 
of  hell.  Before  that  I  had  never  even  thought  of  hell.  .  .  .  Now, 
and  all  at  once,  I  suffered  hi  a  measure  what  is  suffered  there.1 

Normal  individuals  may  come  to  a  deep  consciousness  of 
having  left  undone  the  things  they  ought  to  have  done,  of 
having  done  the  things  they  ought  not  to  have  done.  This 

1  Quoted  by  James  in  his  Varieties,  p.  146. 


RELIGION  AND  RELIGIOUS  EXPERIENCE    303 

wt 

realization  may  be  at  once  a  "consciousness  of  sin,"  and  a 
desire  for  a  new  life.  If  it  is  the  consciousness  of  sin  which 
becomes  predominant,  then  a  desolate  and  tormenting  re- 
morse engulfs  the  individual.  But  the  consciousness  of  sin 
for  the  religious  becomes  simply  a  prelude  to  entrance  upon  a 
better  life.  The  awareness  of  past  sins  is  combined  in  the 
religious,  especially  in  devout  Christians,  with  faith  in  God's 
mercy,  and  in  his  welcoming  of  the  penitent  sinner: 

The  sacrifices  of  God  are  a  broken  spirit;  a  broken  and  a  contrite 

heart,  0  God,  thou  wilt  not  despise. 
Have  mercy  upon  me,  O  God;  according  to  thy  loving  kindness,  blot 

out  my  transgressions. 
Wash  me  throughly  from  mine  iniquity,  and  cleanse  me  from  my 

sin. 

For  I  acknowledge  my  transgressions,  and  my  sin  is  ever  before  me. 
Purge  me  with  hyssop  and  I  shall  be  clean;  wash  me,  and  I  shall  be 

whiter  than  snow. 

Again  the  New  Testament  call  to  repentance  is  symbolic  of 
the  experience  of  millions  of  religious  people.  "  Repent  ye, 
for  the  kingdom  of  Heaven  is  at  hand."  There  is  a  terrible 
intensity  and  immediate  imperativeness  about  this  call.  But 
to  all  there  comes  at  one  time  or  another  an  urgent  sense  of 
spiritual  shortcoming  and  the  desire  to  lead  a  better  life. 
The  lamenting  of  sins  becomes  the  least  part;  what  is  impor- 
tant is  the  immense  new  impetus  toward  a  better  life.  The 
records  of  religious  conversion  are  full  of  instances  where  men 
by  this  sudden  penitential  revulsion  from  their  past  life  and  a 
startled  realization  of  new  spiritual  possibilities,  have  broken 
away  permanently  from  lifelong  habitual  vices.  James  cites 
a  case  of  an  exceedingly  belligerent  and  pugilistic  collier 
named  Richard  Weaver,  who  was  by  a  sudden  conversion  to 
religion  not  only  made  averse  to  fighting,  but  persistently 
meek  and  gentle  under  provocation.  Similar  cases,  genuine 
and  well  documented,  fill  the  archives  of  religious  psychology. 

The  religious  man  in  repenting  knows  that  God  will,  if  his 
repentance  is  sincere,  forgive  him,  and  sustain  and  support 
him  in  his  new  life. 


804  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

I  say  unto  you  that  likewise  joy  shall  be  in  Heaven  over  one  sinner 
that  repenteth,  more  than  over  ninety  and  nine  just  persons  which 
need  no  repentance. 

I  say  unto  you  there  is  joy  hi  the  presence  of  the  angels  of  God 
over  one  sinner  that  repenteth.1 

While  regret  over  sin,  alienation  from  a  past  life  of  evil,  and 
a  persistent  dedication  to  a  purified  and  righteous  existence 
constitute,  spiritually,  the  phenomena  of  repentance  and  con- 
version, repentance  has  had  in  religion  certain  fixed  outward 
forms.  If  sin  had  been  committed,  merely  inward  spiritual 
realization  was  not  sufficient,  penance  must  be  done.  Pen- 
ance in  the  early  days  of  the  Christian  Church  was  public. 
Later  penance  became  a  private  matter  (public  penance  was 
suppressed  by  an  ordinance  of  Pope  Leo  I  in  461  A.D.). 

Private  penance  took  various  familiar  forms,  such  as  scourg- 
ings,  fastings  on  bread  and  water,  reciting  a  given  number 
of  psalms,  prayers,  and  the  like.  Later  penalties  could  be 
redeemed  by  alms.  A  penitent  would  be  excused  from  the 
prescribed  works  of  penance  at  the  cost,  e.  g.,  of  equipping  a 
soldier  for  the  crusade,  of  building  a  bridge  or  road.  Grad- 
ually in  the  history  of  the  Christian  religion,  penances  have 
been  lightened.  In  the  Protestant  Church,  with  the  enun- 
ciation of  the  principle  of  justification  through  faith  alone 
there  could  be  no  sacrament  of  penance. 

One  form  in  which  the  penitential  mood  receives  expression 
is  in  confession  in  which  the  penitent  acknowledges  his  sins. 
There  is  no  space  here  to  trace  the  development  of  this  prac- 
tice in  religion.  It  must  suffice  to  point  out  that  psychologi- 
cally it  is  a  cleansing  or  purgation.  It  clears  the  moral  at- 
mosphere. It  is  a  relief  to  the  tormented  and  remorseful 
soul  to  say  "Peccavi,"  and  to  confide  either  directly  or  in- 
directly to  the  divine  the  burden  of  his  sins.  It  is  for  many 
people  the  necessary  pre-condition,  as  it  is  in  the  Catholic 
Church,  to  penitence  and  the  actual  performance  of  penance. 

The  psychological  value  of  confession  varies  with  individual 

>  Luke,  16:  7,10. 


RELIGION  AND  RELIGIOUS  EXPERIENCE    305 

temperaments ;  for  many  it  is  high.  There  are  few  so  self-con- 
tained and  self-sufficient  that  they  do  not  seek  to  express  their 
emotions  to  others.  It  is  not  surprising  that  the  gregarious 
human  creature  should  find  confession  a  restorative  and  a 
solace.  Human  beings  are  not  only  natively  responsive  to 
the  emotions  of  others,  but  by  nature  tend  to  express  their 
own  emotions  and  to  be  gratified  by  a  sympathetic  response. 
Emotions  of  any  sort,  joyous  or  sorrowful,  find  some  articula- 
tion. The  oppressive  consciousness  of  sin  particularly  must 
find  an  outlet  in  expression.  And  the  expression  of  sin  must 
somewhere  be  received.  The  wrong  done  rankles  heavily  in 
the  private  bosom.  The  crucified  soul  demands  a  sympa- 
thetic spirit  to  receive  its  painful  and  personal  revelation. 
He  that  would  confess  his  sins  requires  a  listener  of  a  large 
and  understanding  heart.  Just  such  a  merciful,  forgiving,  and 
understanding  friend  is  the  God  whom  Christianity  pictures. 
God  waits  with  infinite  patience  for  the  confessions  and  the 
surrender  of  the  contrite  heart.  The  normal  human  desire 
to  rid  one's  self  of  a  tormenting  secret,  to  "exteriorize  one's 
rottenness,"  finds  satisfaction  on  an  exalted  plane  in  confes- 
sion to  God,  or  to  his  appointed  ministers. 

Joy  and  enthusiasm  —  Festivals  and  thanksgivings.  So 
far  our  account  has  been  confined  to  experiences  in  which  man 
felt  the  need  or  fear  of  the  divine,  because  of  his  own  desires, 
weaknesses,  or  sins.  But  humans  find  religious  expression 
for  more  joyous  emotions.  Even  primitive  man  lives  not 
always  in  terror  or  in  tribulation.  There  are  occasions,  such 
as  plentiful  harvests,  successful  hunting,  the  birth  of  children, 
which  stir  him  to  expressions  of  enthusiastic  appreciation  and 
gratitude  toward  the  divine.  Some  of  the  so-called  Dionysiac 
festivals  in  ancient  Greece  are  examples  of  the  enthusiasm, 
joy,  and  abounding  vitality  to  which  religion  has,  among  so 
many  other  human  experiences,  given  expression.  In  the 
religion  of  the  Old  Testament,  again,  we  find  that  the  Psalmist 
is  time  and  again  filled  with  rejoicing: 


806  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

O  give  thanks  unto  the  Lord,  for  he  is  good,  and  his  mercy  endureth 

forever. 
Let  the  redeemed  of  the  Lord  say  so,  whom  he  hath  redeemed  from 

the  hand  of  the  enemy. 
And  he  gathered  them  out  of  the  lands  from  the  east  and  from  the 

west,  from  the  north  and  from  the  south. 
They  wandered  in  the  wilderness  in  a  solitary  way;  they  found  no 

city  to  dwell  in. 

Hungry  and  thirsty  their  soul  fainted  in  them. 
Then  they  cried  unto  the  Lord  in  their  trouble,  and  he  delivered 

them  out  of  their  distresses. 
And  he  led  them  forth  by  the  right  way  that  they  might  go  to  a  city 

of  habitation. 
O  that  men  would  praise  the  Lord  for  his  goodness,  and  for  his 

wonderful  works  to  the  children  of  men. 
For  he  satisfieth  the  longing  soul  and  filleth  the  hungry  heart  with 

goodness. 

Nor  need  this  rejoicing  be  always  an  explicit  thanksgiving 
for  favors  received.  It  may  be,  as  were  the  dithyrambic 
festivals  of  Greece,  the  riotous  overflow  of  enthusiasm,  a 
joyous,  sympathetic  exuberance  with  the  vital  processes  of 
Nature.  Dionysos  stood  for  fertility,  life,  gladness,  all  the 
positive,  passionate,  and  jubilant  aspects  of  Nature.  And  the 
well-known  satyr  choruses,  the  wine  and  dance  and  song  of 
the  Greek  spring  festivals,  are  classic  and  beautiful  illustra- 
tions of  the  religion  of  enthusiasm.  Euripides  gives  voice  to 
this  spirit  in  the  song  of  the  Maenads  in  the  Bacchx : 

"Will  they  ever  come  to  me,  ever  again, 

The  long,  long  dances, 

On  through  the  dark  till  the  dim  stars  wane? 
Shall  1  feel  the  dew  on  my  throat  and  the  stream 
Of  wind  in  my  hair?    Shall  our  white  feet  gleam 

In  the  dim  expanses? 
O  feet  of  a  fawn  to  the  greenward  fled, 

Alone  in  the  grass  and  the  loveliness?"  l 

Every  religion  has  its  festival  as  well  as  its  fast  days.  Sac- 
rifices come  to  be  held  less  as  offerings  to  jealous  gods  than  as 
sacrificial  feasts,  in  which  the  worshipers  themselves  partake, 

1  Euripides:  Bacchce  (Gilbert  Murray  translation). 


RELIGION  AND  RELIGIOUS  EXPERIENCE    307 

as  opportunities  for  communal  rejoicings  and  for  friendly 
fellowship  with  divinity.  At  sacrificial  feasts  it  is  as  if  the 
gods  themselves  were  at  table. 

Dance  and  song  are  a  regular  accompaniment  of  primitive 
religion.  Students  of  Greek  drama,  such  as  Jane  Harrison 
and  Gilbert  Murray,  trace  Greek  tragedy  back  to  the  choruses 
and  dances  of  early  Dionysiac  festivals.  Throughout  the 
history  of  religion  not  only  have  man's  sorrow  and  need  been 
expressed,  but  also  his  sympathetic  gladness  with  vitality, 
fertility,  and  growth,  his  rejoicings  over  the  fruitions  and  glad 
eventualities  of  experience.  Man  has  felt  the  decay  and 
evanescence  of  human  goods.  He  has  felt  also  the  exuber- 
ance of  natural  processes,  the  triumph  of  life  over  death  when 
a  child  is  born,  the  renewal  of  life  by  food,  the  recurrence  of 
growth  and  fertility  in  the  processes  of  the  seasons,  of  sowing 
and  of  harvest.  And  for  all  these  enrichments  and  enlarge- 
ments of  life,  he  has  rejoiced,  and  found  rituals  to  express  his 
rejoicings.  He  has  had  the  impulse  and  the  energy  to  sing 
unto  the  Lord  a  new  song. 

Theology.  Thus  far  we  have  discussed  the  religious  expe- 
rience as  an  experience,  as  normal,  natural,  and  inevitable  as 
are  love  and  hate,  melancholy  and  exaltation,  joy  and  sorrow. 
Like  these  latter,  the  religious  experience  is  subjected  to 
rationalization.  Like  all  other  emotions,  that  of  religion 
finds  for  itself  a  logic  and  a  justification.  But  so  profoundly 
influential  is  "cosmic  emotion"  on  men's  lives  that  when  it  is 
reasoned  upon,  the  results  are  nothing  less  than  an  attitude 
taken  toward  the  whole  of  reality.  Theology  arises  as  a 
world  view  formulated  in  accordance  with  a  reasoned  inter- 
pretation of  the  religious  experience.  It  must  be  noted  again 
that  the  experience  is  primary.  If  men  had  not  first  had  the 
experience  of  religion,  they  would  not  have  reflected  about  it. 
Every  contact  of  the  individual  with  the  world  to  some  degree 
arouses  emotion  and  provokes  thought.  It  is  not  different 
with  religion.  That  theologies  should  differ  and  conflict  is  not 
surprising.  No  two  individuals,  no  two  groups  or  ages  have 


308  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

precisely  the  same  experiences  of  the  world,  and  their  reason- 
ings upon  their  religious  feelings  are  bound  to  differ,  overlap, 
and  at  times  to  conflict.  The  variety  of  world  views  are 
testimony  to  the  genuineness  of  the  religious  experience  as  it 
fulfills  the  different  needs,  emotions,  and  desires  of  different 
ages,  groups,  and  generations  of  men. 

The  description  of  the  divine.  Reasonings  upon  religion 
exhibit,  like  the  religious  emotions,  certain  recurrent  features. 
There  is,  in  the  first  place,  a  certain  universality  in  the  de- 
scription of  the  objects  of  veneration.  These  are  nearly  al- 
ways regarded  as  self-sufficient  in  contrast  with  man.  Man 
seeks,  strives,  desires,  has  partial  triumphs  and  pitiful  fail- 
ures, is  always  in  travail  after  some  ideal.  His  life  is  incom- 
plete; at  best  it  is  a  high  aspiration;  it  is  never  really  fulfilled. 
But  divinity  has  nearly  always  been  regarded  as  seeking 
nothing,  asking  nothing,  needing  nothing.  This  is  what 
infinity  in  practical  terms  means.  And,  with  certain  ex- 
ceptions presently  to  be  noted,  the  divine  power  has  always 
been  regarded  as  infinite.  Thus  Aristotle  says  that  in  man's 
best  moments,  when  he  lives  in  reflection  a  life  of  self-suffi- 
ciency, he  lives  just  such  a  life  as  God  lives  continually.  And 
Plato  describes  the  philosopher  as  a  man  who  because  he  can 
live,  at  least  temporarily,  amid  eternal,  changeless  beauty 
and  truth,  "lives  in  recollection  among  those  things  among 
which  God  always  abides,  and  in  beholding  which  God  is 
what  he  is."  Lucretius  also  gives  a  simple  picture  of  the 
even  calmness  and  still,  even  security  of  the  life  of  the  gods 
as  he  and  all  the  Epicureans  conceived  it.  Tennyson  para- 
phrases the  picture: 

"...  The  Gods,  who  haunt 
The  lucid  interspace  of  world  and  world, 
Where  never  creeps  a  cloud,  or  moves  a  wind, 
Nor  ever  falls  the  least  white  star  of  snow, 
Nor  ever  lowest  roll  of  thunder  moans, 
Nor  sound  of  human  sorrow  mounts  to  mar 
Their  sacred  everlasting  calm!"  1 

1  Tennyson:  Lucretius. 


RELIGION  AND  RELIGIOUS  EXPERIENCE    309 

Divinity  has,  again,  quite  universally  been  recognized  as 
exerting  over  the  individual  a  compelling  power,  and  of  in- 
sistently arousing  his  veneration.  The  psychological  origins 
of  this  phenomenon  have  already  been  noted.  Men  fear, 
need,  feel  themselves  dependent  on  the  gods.  But  further 
than  this  many  religious  thinkers  hold  that  man  cannot  even 
be  aware  of  the  divine  power  without  wishing  to  adjust  him- 
self harmoniously  to  it.  And  they  hold,  as  did  Immanuel 
Kant,  that  man  is  born  with  an  awareness  of  the  divine. 

The  attributes  of  divinity  have  been  differently  assigned  at 
different  times  in  the  history  of  religion.  In  general  two 
qualities  have  been  regarded  as  characteristic:  power  and 
goodness.  In  primitive  belief,  the  first  received  the  predomi- 
nant emphasis;  the  higher  religions  have  emphasized  the 
second.  For  savage  man,  as  we  have  seen,  the  divine  person- 
ages were  conceived  in  effect  as  human  beings  with  superhu- 
man powers.  They  were  feared  and  flattered,  needed  and 
praised.  Adjustment  to  them  was  a  practical,  imperative 
necessity.  They  combined  infinite  capacity  with  human  and 
finite  caprice.  The  attention  they  received  from  humans  was 
distinctly  utilitarian  in  character.  These  forces  of  wind  and 
sun  and  rain  might  be  brutal  or  benignant.  Primitive  man 
established,  therefore,  a  system  of  magic,  sacrifice,  and  prayer, 
whereby  he  might  minimize  the  precariousness  of  existence, 
and  keep  the  gods  on  his  side. 

In  the  more  spiritualistic  monotheistic  religions,  while  the 
power  of  God  has  been  insistently  reiterated,  there  has  been 
an  increasing  emphasis  upon  the  divine  goodness.  The 
Psalmist  is  continually  referring  to  both: 

Praise  ye  the  Lord.    0  give  thanks  unto  the  Lord;  for  he  is  good: 

for  his  mercy  endureth  forever. 
Who  can  utter  the  mighty  acts  of  the  Lord? 

Oh  that  men  would  praise  the  Lord  for  his  goodness,  and  for  his 

wonderful  works  to  the  children  of  men! 
For  he  hath  broken  the  gates  of  brass,  and  cut  the  bars  of  iron  in 

sunder. 


310  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

Wrath  and  terror  gradually  give  place  to  mercy  and  benevo- 
lence as  the  primary  attributes  of  the  divine.  The  power  of 
God,  in  Christianity,  for  example,  is  still  regarded  as  unlimited, 
but  it  is  completely  expended  in  the  loving  salvation  of  man- 
kind. Where  the  divinity  has  ceased  to  be  a  willful  power  and 
has  become  instead  the  God  of  mercy  and  lovingkindness,  it  is 
no  longer  necessary  to  placate  him  by  material  sacrifice,  to 
win  his  favor  by  trivial  earthly  gifts.  Divine  favor  is  sought 
rather  by  aspiration  after  and  the  practice  of  a  better  life. 
The  mighty  but  capricious  deity  gives  place  to  the  God  of 
unfailing  charity  and  love.  One  earns  God's  mercies  by  walk- 
ing in  the  ways  of  the  Lord.  "Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart, 
for  they  shall  see  God.  .  .  .  Blessed  are  they  which  do  hun- 
ger and  thirst  after  righteousness,  for  they  shall  be  filled." 
In  both  Christianity  and  Judaism,  God's  grace  and  mercies 
go  always  to  the  pure  in  heart,  and  the  righteous  in  spirit. 
"  What  doth  the  Lord  require  of  thee,"  proclaims  Micah,"  but 
to  do  justly,  and  to  love  mercy  and  to  walk  humbly  with  thy 
God?" 

The  divine  as  the  human  ideal.  There  has  been  in  certain 
latter-day  philosophies,  a  tendency  to  interpret  the  divine  as 
the  objectification  of  human  ideals.  That  is,  according  to  this 
theory,  men  have  found  hi  their  imagined  divinities  the  ful- 
fillment of  ideals  that  they  could  never  have  realized  on  earth. 
Men,  says  this  theory,  long  to  be  immortal,  so  they  imagine 
gods  who  are.  Finite  man  has  infinite  desires.  In  God  is 
infinite  fulfillment  through  eternity.  No  men  are  all  good; 
some  desire  to  be.  Such  fulfillment  they  find  in  the  divine. 
Our  conception  of  God  is  an  index  of  our  own  ideals.  When 
men  were  savages,  then*  divinity  was  a  jealous  monster.  In 
the  refinement  and  spiritualization  of  the  human  imagination, 
divinity  becomes  all-beautiful  and  all-benevolent  as  well  as 
the  wielder  of  infinite  power.  John  Stuart  Mill  gives  possibly 
the  clearest  expression  to  this  attitude  which  is,  if  not  in  the 
strictest  sense  religious,  at  least  deeply  spiritual: 


RELIGION  AND  RELIGIOUS  EXPERIENCE    811 

Religion  and  poetry  address  themselves,  at  least  in  one  of  their 
aspects,  to  the  same  part  of  the  human  constitution;  they  both 
supply  the  same  want,  that  of  ideal  conceptions  grander  and  more 
beautiful  than  we  see  realized  in  the  prose  of  human  life.  Religion, 
as  distinguished  from  poetry,  is  the  product  of  the  craving  to  know 
whether  these  imaginative  conceptions  have  realities,  answering  to 
them  in  some  other  world  than  ours.  The  mind,  in  this  state,  eagerly 
catches  at  any  rumors  respecting  other  worlds,  especially  when  deliv- 
ered by  persons  whom  it  deems  wiser  than  itself.  To  the  poetry  of 
the  supernatural,  comes  to  be  thus  added  a  positive  belief  and  expec- 
tation, which  unpoetical  minds  can  share  with  the  poetical.  Belief 
in  a  God  or  gods,  and  in  a  life  after  death,  becomes  the  canvas  which 
every  mind,  according  to  its  capacity,  covers  with  such  ideal  pictures 
as  it  can  either  invent  or  copy.  In  that  other  life  each  hopes  to  find 
the  good  which  he  has  failed  to  find  on  earth,  or  the  better  which  is 
suggested  to  him  by  the  good  which  on  earth  he  has  partially  seen 
and  known.  More  especially  this  belief  supplies  the  finer  minds  with 
material  for  conceptions  of  beings  more  awful  than  they  can  have 
known  on  earth,  and  more  excellent  than  they  probably  have  known.1 

In  his  religion,  Mill  maintains,  man  thus  finds  the  fulfillment 
of  unfulfilled  desire.  Religion  is  thus  conceived  as  an  im- 
aginative enterprise  of  a  very  high  and  satisfying  kind.  It 
peoples  the  world  with  perfections,  not  true  perhaps  to  actual 
experience,  but  true  to  man's  highest  aspirations.  It  gives 
man  companionship  with  divinity  at  least  in  imagination. 
It  enables  him  to  live,  at  least  spiritually,  in  such  a  universe  as 
his  highest  hopes  and  desires  would  have  him  live  in,  in  fact. 
It  must  be  pointed  out,  however,  that  the  devoutly  religious 
do  not  regard  their  God  as  a  beautiful  fiction,  but  as  a  dear 
reality  whom  they  can  serenely  trust  and  love,  and  whose 
existence  is  the  certain  faith  by  which  they  live. 

The  religious  experience,  theology,  and  science.  It  has 
already  been  pointed  out  that  theology  is  the  reasoned  formu- 
lation of  the  religious  experience  which  comes  to  men  with 
varying  degrees  of  intensity,  or  the  revelation  by  which  some 
man,  a  Moses  or  a  Mohammed,  has  been  inspired.  Such  a 
formulation  has  a  dual  importance.  For  the  individual  it 
brings  clarity,  order,  and  stability  into  his  religious  experience. 

1  Mill:  Three  Euayt  on  Religion  (Henry  Holt  &  Co.),  pp.  103-04. 


312  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

For  the  group,  it  makes  possible  the  social  transmission  of 
religious  conceptions  and  ideals. 

Reason  in  a  man's  religion,  as  in  any  other  experience,  in- 
troduces stability,  consistency,  and  order.  It  makes  distinc- 
tions; it  resolves  doubts,  confusions,  and  uncertainties.  It 
is  true  that  there  have  been  in  religion,  as  in  politics  and 
morals,  rebels  against  reason.  There  have  been  mystics  who 
preferred  their  warm  ecstatic  visions  to  the  cold  formulations 
and  abstractions  of  theology.  But  there  have  been,  on  the 
other  hand,  those  gifted  or  handicapped,  according  to  one's 
point  of  view,  by  an  insistence  on  reason  as  well  as  rapture  in 
their  religion.  These  have  not  been  satisfied  with  an  intui- 
tion of  God.  They  have  wished  to  know  God,  as  the  highest 
possible  object  of  knowledge.  Thus  in  the  Middle  Ages 
philosophy  and  science  were  regarded  as  the  Handmaids  of 
Theology.  All  was  dedicated  to,  as  nothing  could  be  more 
important  than,  a  knowledge  of  God.  So  we  have,  in  contrast 
with  ecstatic  visions  of  God,  the  plodding  analysis  of  the 
scholastics,  the  subtle  and  clean-cut  logic  by  which  such  men 
as  Saint  Anselm  sought  to  give  form,  clarity,  and  ultimacy 
to  their  sense  of  the  reality  of  God.  There  has  possibly  no- 
where in  the  history  of  thought  been  subtler  and  more  thor- 
oughgoing analysis  than  some  of  the  mediaeval  schoolmen 
lavished  upon  the  clarification  and  demonstration  of  the 
concept  of  God.  The  necessity  for  reasoning  upon  one's  sense 
of  the  reality  of  the  divine,  as  it  was  felt  by  many  mediaeval 
schoolmen,  is  thus  stated  by  one  historian: 

Anselm,  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  ...  is  the  true  type  of  the 
schoolman;  firmly  convinced  of  the  truth  of  the  dogmas  and  yet 
possessed  of  a  strong  philosophical  impulse,  he  seeks  to  prove  to 
reason  what  has  to  be  accepted  on  authority.  He  bravely  includes 
in  his  attempt  to  rationalize  the  faith  not  only  such  general  proposi- 
tions as  the  existence  of  God,  but  the  entire  church  scheme  of  salva- 
tion, the  Trinity,  and  Incarnation,  and  the  Redemption  of  man.  We 
must  believe  the  Catholic  doctrine  —  that  is  beyond  cavil  —  but  we 
should  also  try  to  understand  what  we  believe,  understand  why  it  is 
true.1 

1  Thilly:  History  of  Philosophy,  p.  169. 


RELIGION  AND  RELIGIOUS  EXPERIENCE    313 

But  theology  has  public  as  well  as  purely  private  impor- 
tance. It  must  not  be  forgotten  that  religion  is  a  social  habit 
as  well  as  a  personal  activity.  From  primitive  life  down  to 
our  own  day,  religion  has  been  intimately  associated  with  the 
other  social  activities  of  a  people,  and  has  indeed  been  one  of 
the  chief  institutions  of  moral  and  social  control.  Ethical 
standards  have  been  until  very  recent  times  in  the  history  of 
Christian  Europe  almost  exclusively  derived  from  religion. 
Where  the  religious  experience  is  of  such  crucial  importance,  it 
has  been  necessary  to  give  it  a  fixed  form  and  content  which 
might  be  used  to  initiate  the  young  and  the  outsider. 

Theology,  though  essentially  a  product  of  reflection  upon 
the  religious  experience  itself,  tends  to  incorporate  extra- 
religious  material  into  its  system.  In  its  demonstration  of  the 
divine  order  and  of  man's  relationship  to  the  divine,  it  incor- 
porates both  science  and  history.  Science  becomes  for  it  the 
manifestation  of  the  divine  arrangements  of  the  universe; 
history  becomes  a  revelation  of  the  divine  purpose  and  its 
realization.  In  primitive  belief  science  and  religion  are  prac- 
tically indistinguishable  from  each  other.  The  way  of  the 
gods  is  the  way  of  the  universe.  The  attribution  of  personal 
motives  to  the  gods  was  primitive  man's  literal  and  serious 
way  of  conceiving  the  government  of  the  cosmos.  He  believed 
himself  actually  to  be  living  in  a  world  governed  by  living 
and  personal  powers,  an  animistic  world.  The  myths  which 
describe  the  birth  and  life  of  the  gods,  the  creation  of 
man,  the  bestowing  of  the  gift  of  fire  are  conceived  as  the 
literal  and  natural  history  of  creation. 

Christianity  affords  a  striking  example  of  how  theology 
incorporates  science  and  natural  history  into  its  world  view. 
For  the  early  Christian  Fathers,  natural  science  was  interest- 
ing and  useful  in  so  far  as  it  illustrated,  which  it  did,  the  ways 
of  God  upon  earth. 

"The  sole  interest  [of  the  Fathers]  in  natural  fact,"  writes  Henry 
Osborn  Taylor,  "lay  in  its  confirmatory  evidence  of  Scriptural  truth. 
They  were  constantly  impelled  to  understand  facts  in  conformity 


314  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

with  their  understanding  of  Scripture,  and  to  accept  or  deny  accord- 
ingly. Thus  Augustine  denies  the  existence  of  Antipodes,  men  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  earth,  who  walk  with  their  feet  opposite  to 
our  own.  That  did  not  harmonize  with  his  general  conception  of 
spiritual  cosmogony."  l 

All  the  natural  science  current,  as  represented,  for  example, 
in  the  compilation  called  the  Physailogus,  is  used  as  sym- 
bolical of  the  ways  of  the  Lord  to  man. 

The  Pelican  is  distinguished  by  its  love  for  its  young.  As  these 
begin  to  grow  they  strike  at  their  parents'  faces,  and  the  parents 
strike  back  and  kill  them.  Then  the  parents  take  pity,  and  on  the 
third  day  the  mother  comes  and  opens  her  side  and  lets  the  blood 
flow  on  the  dead  young  ones,  and  they  become  alive  again.  Thus 
God  cast  off  mankind  after  the  Fall,  and  delivered  them  over  to 
death;  but  he  took  pity  on  us,  as  a  mother,  for  by  the  Crucifixion  He 
awoke  us  with  His  blood  to  eternal  life.1 

History  is  treated  in  the  same  way.  Nearly  all  the  histories 
written  by  the  early  Christian  Fathers  were  written  in  deliber- 
ate advocacy  of  the  Faith.  It  was  to  silence  the  heresies  of 
those  who  attributed  to  the  Church  the  entrance  of  Alaric  into 
Rome  that  Augustine  wrote  his  famous  City  of  God.  The 
whole  of  history  is  a  revelation  of  the  divine  purpose  which  is 
eventually  to  be  fulfilled.  Orosius,  again,  a  disciple  of  Augus- 
tine, wrote  his  Seven  Books  of  Histories  against  the  Pagans  to 
prove  the  abundance  of  calamities  which  had  afflicted  man- 
kind before  the  birth  of  Christ.  He  gathers  together  all  the 
evidence  he  can  to  exhibit  at  once  the  patience  and  the  power 
of  God.  "Straitened  and  anxious  minds  "  might  not  be  able 
to  see  the  purpose  always,  but  all  was  ordained  for  one  end. 
Thus  he  writes  at  the  beginning  of  his  seventh  book: 

The  human  race  from  the  beginning  was  so  created  and  appointed 
that  living  under  religion  with  peace  without  labor,  by  the  fruit  of 
obedience  it  might  merit  eternity;  but  it  abused  the  Creator's  good- 
ness, turned  liberty  into  wilful  license,  and  through  disdain  fell  into 
forgetf ulness;  now  the  patience  of  God  is  just  and  doubly  just,  oper- 

»  H.  O.  Taylor:  The  Mediaeval  Mind,  vol.  I,  pp.  76-76. 
»  Thilly:  loc.  dt.,  p.  76. 


RELIGION  AND  RELIGIOUS  EXPERIENCE    815 

ating  that  this  disdain  might  not  wholly  ruin  those  whom  He  wished 
to  spare  . .  .  and  also  so  that  He  might  always  hold  out  guidance 
although  to  an  ignorant  creature,  to  whom  if  penitent  He  would 
mercifully  restore  the  means  to  grace.1 

History  thus  comes  to  reveal  the  fulfillment  of  the  divine 
purpose,  as  science  reveals  the  divine  arrangements  of  the 
universe. 

It  has  already  been  noted  that  theology,  certainly  Christian 
theology,  maintains  that  God  is  all-good.  In  consequence  the 
natural  world  which  scientific  inquiry  reveals  must  be  all- 
good  in  its  operations  and  its  fruits.  The  history  of  the  uni- 
verse must  be  a  steady  and  unfaltering  fulfillment  of  the 
divine,  of  the  beneficent  eternal  purpose.  The  ways  of  the 
Almighty,  so  theology  tells  us,  are  just  ways,  and  the  uni- 
verse in  which  we  live,  so  theology  tells  us,  is  a  revelation  of 
that  justice.  The  eighteenth  century  "natural  theologians" 
spent  much  energy  in  demonstrating  how  perfectly  adapted  to 
his  needs  are  man's  natural  environment  and  his  organic  struc- 
ture. They  pointed  to  the  eye  with  its  delicate  membranes 
so  subtly  adapted  to  the  function  of  sight.  All  Nature  was 
a  continuous  and  magnificent  revelation  of  God's  designs, 
which  were  good.  Christian  Wolff,  for  example,  a  rational- 
istic theologian  of  the  late  eighteenth  century,  writes: 

God  has  created  the  sun  to  keep  the  changeable  conditions  on  the 
earth  in  such  an  order  that  living  creatures,  men  and  beasts,  may 
inhabit  its  surface.  .  .  .  The  sun  makes  daylight  not  only  on  our 
earth,  but  also  on  the  other  planets;  and  daylight  is  of  the  utmost 
utility  to  us;  for  by  its  means  we  can  commodiously  carry  on  those 
occupations  which  in  the  night-time  would  either  be  quite  impossible, 
or  at  any  rate  impossible  without  our  going  to  the  expense  of  artificial 
light.1 

Mechanistic  science  and  theology.  With  the  rise  of  mech- 
anistic science  there  has  come  about  a  sharp  collision  between 

1  Orosius:  Seven  Books  of  Histories  against  the  Pagans,  n,  3. 

1  Christian  Wolff:  Vtrn&nftige  Gedanken  von  den  Absichten  der  natftrliehen 
Dinge,  1782,  pp.  74  ff.f  quoted  by  James  in  Varieties  of  Keliffious  Experience, 
p.  492. 


316  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

the  conception  of  the  goodness  of  the  universe  as  theology  de- 
clares it,  and  of  its  blindnesses  and  indifference  as  science  seems 
to  unfold  it  to  us.  Contrast  the  picture  of  a  cosmos  which 
was  deliberately  and  considerately  made  by  God  to  serve 
every  exigency  of  man's  welfare,  with  the  picture  earlier 
quoted  from  Bertrand  Russell  as  the  natural  scientist  gives  it 
to  us.  It  is  no  longer  easy  to  say  the  Heavens  declare  the 
glory  of  God,  and  the  firmament  showeth  his  handiwork.  As 
far  as  we  can  see  natural  processes  go  on  without  the  slightest 
reference  to  the  welfare  of  man,  who  is  but  an  accidental 
product  of  their  indifferent  forces.  The  universe  is  a  system 
of  blind  regularities.  "  Omnipotent  matter  rolls  on  its  relent- 
less way."  Nature  is  thoroughly  impersonal,  and  indeed, 
were  it  to  be  judged  by  personal  or  human  standards,  it  could 
with  more  accuracy  be  maintained  that  it  is  evil  than  that  it  is 
good.  As  Mill  puts  it  in  a  famous  passage: 

In  sober  truth,  nearly  all  the  things  which  men  are  hanged  or  im- 
prisoned for  doing  to  one  another,  are  Nature's  everyday  perform- 
ances. Killing,  the  most  criminal  act  recognized  by  human  laws, 
Nature  does  once  to  every  being  that  lives,  and  in  a  large  proportion 
of  cases,  after  protracted  tortures  such  as  only  the  greatest  monsters 
whom  we  read  of  ever  purposely  inflicted  on  their  living  fellow- 
creatures.  .  .  .  Nature  impales  men,  breaks  them  as  if  on  the  wheel, 
casts  them  to  be  devoured  by  wild  beasts,  burns  them  to  death, 
crushes  them  with  stones  like  the  first  Christian  martyr,  starves 
them  with  hunger,  freezes  them  with  cold,  poisons  them  by  the  quick 
or  slow  venom  of  her  exhalations.  ...  A  single  hurricane  destroys 
the  hopes  of  a  season;  a  flight  of  locusts  or  an  inundation  desolates  a 
district;  a  trifling  chemical  change  in  an  edible  root  starves  a  million 
of  people.1 

The  theology  which  insists  on  the  patent  and  ubiquitous 
evidences  of  God's  beneficent  purpose,  attempts,  as  already 
pointed  out,  to  demonstrate  that  purpose  in  the  history  of 
mankind.  Orthodox  Christian  doctrine,  for  example,  insists 
that  man  has  been  especially  created  by  God,  as  were  the 
other  animals  each  after  their  kind,  and  that  man's  ultimate 

>  Mill:  Three  Eaaaya  on  Religion  (Holt),  pp.  28-30. 


RELIGION  AND  RELIGIOUS  EXPERIENCE    817 

and  unique  destiny  is  salvation  through  God's  grace.  Man 
was  created  in  perfection  in  the  Garden  of  Eden,  sinned,  and 
will,  through  God's  mercy,  find  eventual  redemption. 

Following  the  publication  of  Darwin's  Origin  of  Species,  in 
1859,  the  rapid  spread  of  evolutionary  doctrine  aroused  vio- 
lent opposition  on  the  part  of  Christian  thinkers  and  devout 
Christians  generally.  In  the  first  place  it  conflicted  sharply 
with  the  orthodox  version  of  special  creation.  Secondly,  it 
made  more  difficult  the  insistence  on  marks  of  design  or  pur- 
pose in  Nature.  These  two  points  will  be  clearer  after  a  brief 
consideration  of  the  nature  of  Darwinian  evolution,  with 
whose  thoroughgoing  mechanical  principles  nineteenth-cen- 
tury theology  came  most  bitterly  in  conflict.  The  theory 
explains  the  origins  of  species,  somewhat  as  follows: 

The  variety  of  species  now  current  developed  out  of  simpler 
forms  of  animal  life,  from  which  they  are  lineally  descended. 
Their  present  forms  and  structures  are  modifications  from  the 
common  forms  possessed  by  their  remote  ancestors.  These 
modifications  are,  in  the  stricter  forms  of  Darwinian  evolu- 
tion, explained  in  mechanical  terms  by  the  theory  of  the  "sur- 
vival of  the  fittest."  That  is,  those  animals  with  variations 
adapted  to  their  environment  survive;  those  without,  perish. 
In  consequence  when  any  individual  in  a  species  happens  to  be 
born  with  a  variation  specially  adapted  to  its  environment,  in 
the  sharp  "struggle  for  existence"  that  characterizes  animal 
life  in  a  state  of  nature,  it  alone  will  be  able  to  survive  and  re- 
produce its  kind.  All  the  variations  of  species  current  are, 
therefore,  examples  of  this  continuous  process  of  descent  with 
adaptive  modifications.  The  origin  of  the  human  species 
came  about  through  just  such  a  variation  or  mutation  from 
one  of  the  higher  mammals  (we  have  reason  to  believe,  a 
species  similar  to  that  of  the  anthrapoid  ape).  Man's  an- 
cestry, it  seems,  from  the  scientific  evidence  which  has  been 
marshaled,  may  be  traced  back  biologically,  in  an  almost  un- 
broken chain  to  unicellular  animals.1 

>  For  detailed  discussion  see  Scott:  Theory  of  Evolution. 


318  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

This  theory  profoundly  affected  theological  thinking.  In 
the  first  place,  the  evolutionary  account  not  only  of  the  origin 
of  man,  but  of  the  origin  of  all  species,  as  a  descent  with  modi- 
fication from  simpler  animal  forms,  conflicts  with  the  account 
of  special  creation,  certainly  in  the  literal  form  of  the  Biblical 
story.  Secondly,  the  arguments  from  design  which  had  been 
drawn  from  the  adaptation  of  organic  life  to  environment  were, 
if  not  disproved,  at  least  rendered  dubious.  Although  evo- 
lution did  not  account  for  the  first  appearance  of  life  on  earth, 
it  did  account  for  the  processes  of  adaptation,  and  without 
invoking  design  or  purpose. 

The  eye,  for  example,  as  explained  by  the  theory  of  evo- 
lution, came  to  its  present  perfection  through  a  series  of  for- 
tunate and  cumulative  variations  through  successive  genera- 
tions. Even  in  its  imperfect  form,  it  was  a  variation  with 
high  "survival  value."  Even  when  it  was  no  more  than  a 
pigmented  spot  peculiarly  sensitive  to  light,  so  the  theory 
holds,  it  was  a  variation  that  enabled  a  species  to  survive  and 
perpetuate  its  kind.  Those  not  possessing  these  fortunate 
variations  were  wiped  out.  The  process  of  Nature,  certainly, 
in  the  development  of  biological  life  thus  appears  to  be  no 
economical  convergence  of  means  upon  an  end.  Nature  has 
been  recklessly  prodigal.  Millions  more  seeds  of  life  are  pro- 
duced than  ever  come  to  fruition.  And  only  animals  perfectly 
adapted  to  their  environment  survive,  while  an  incomparably 
greater  number  perish. 

Theology,  when  it  incorporates  science  and  sets  itself  up  as 
a  direct  and  factual  description  of  the  universe,  thus  comes 
sharply  in  rivalry  with  modern  mechanistic  science.  The 
conflict  is  crucial  with  regard  to  the  purpose  which  theology 
holds  to  be  evident  in  the  universe,  and  the  lack  of  purpose, 
the  purely  blind  regularity,  which  science  seems  to  reveal. 
The  mechanical  laws  by  which  natural  processes  take  place 
exhibit  a  fixed  and  changeless  regularity,  in  which  man's  good 
or  ill  counts  absolutely  nothing.  The  earth  instead  of  being 
the  center  of  the  solar  system,  is  a  cosmic  accident  thrown 


RELIGION  AND  RELIGIOUS  EXPERIENCE    819 

out  into  space.    Man  instead  of  being  a  little  lower  than  the 
angels  is  revealed  by  science  as  a  little  higher  than  the  ape. 

There  is  no  space  in  these  pages  to  trace  the  various  recon- 
ciliations that  have  been  made  between  theology  and  science. 
It  must  be  pointed  out,  however,  that  Christian  theology  has 
increasingly  accepted  modern  mechanistic  doctrines,  includ- 
ing the  doctrine  of  evolution.  But  it  has  attempted  to  show 
that,  granting  all  the  facts  of  physical  science,  the  universe 
does  still  exhibit  the  divine  purpose  and  its  essential  benefi- 
cence. The  very  order  and  symmetry  of  physical  law  have 
been  taken  as  testimony  of  divine  instigation.  Mechanism 
was  set  in  motion  by  God.  In  answer  to  this,  it  is  pointed 
out  by  the  non-theologian  that  then  God's  goodness  cannot 
be  maintained.  Mechanical  processes  are  indiscriminate  in. 
their  distribution  of  goods  and  evils  to  the  just  and  the  unjust: 

All  this  Nature 'does  with  the  most  supercilious  disregard  both  of 
mercy  and  of  justice,  emptying  her  shafts  upon  the  best  and  noblest, 
indifferently  with  the  meanest  and  worst;  upon  those  who  are 
engaged  in  the  highest  and  worthiest  enterprises,  and  often  as  the 
direct  consequence  of  the  noblest  acts;  and  it  might  almost  be  imag- 
ined as  a  punishment  for  them.  She  mows  down  those  on  whose 
existence  hangs  the  well-being  of  a  whole  people;  perhaps  the  pros- 
pects of  the  human  race  for  generations  to  come,  with  as  little  com- 
punction as  those  whose  death  is  a  relief  to  themselves,  or  a  blessing 
to  those  under  their  noxious  influence.1 

Modern  theology  sometimes  grants  the  apparent  reality  of 
the  evils  which  are  current  in  a  mechanistic  world,  but  insists 
that  they  are  making  for  goods  which  we  with  our  finite 
understanding  cannot  comprehend.  Were  our  intelligence 
infinite,  as  is  God's,  we  should  see  how  "somehow  good  will 
be  the  final  goal  of  ill." 

Evolution  has  also  been  explained  as  God's  method  of 
accomplishing  his  ends.  By  some  evolutionists,  Driesch  and 
Bergson  for  example,  evolution  itself,  in  its  steady  production 
of  higher  types,  has  been  held  to  be  too  purposive  in  character 

»  Mill:  Three  Etaayf  on  Religion  (Holt),  p.  29. 


320  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

to  permit  of  a  purely  mechanical  explanation.  The  process  of 
evolution  has  itself  thus  come  to  be  taken  by  some  theologians 
as  a  clear  manifestation  of  God's  beneficent  power  at  work 
in  the  universe. 

But  theology,  in  the  more  spiritualistic  religions,  has  al- 
ways insisted  on  the  primacy  of  God's  goodness.  There  has 
been,  therefore,  in  certain  theological  quarters  the  tendency 
to  surrender  the  conception  of  divine  omnipotence  in  the  face 
of  the  genuine  human  evils  that  are  among  the  fruits  of  blind 
mechanical  forces.  The  idea  of  a  finite  God  who  is  infinitely 
good  in  his  intentions,  but  limited  in  his  powers,  has  been 
advocated  by  such  various  types  of  mind  as  John  Stuart  Mill, 
William  James,  and  H.  G.  Wells.  The  first  mentioned  of 
these  writes: 

One  only  form  of  belief  in  the  supernatural  —  one  theory  respect- 
ing the  origin  and  government  of  the  universe  —  stands  wholly  clear 
both  of  intellectual  contradiction  and  of  moral  obliquity.  It  is  that 
which,  resigning  irrevocably  the  idea  of  an  omnipotent  creator,  re- 
gards Nature  and  Life  not  as  the  expression  throughout  of  the  moral 
character  and  purpose  of  the  Deity,  but  as  the  product  of  a  struggle 
between  contriving  goodness  and  an  intractable  material,  as  was 
believed  by  Plato,  or  a  principle  of  evil  as  was  believed  by  the  Mani- 
cheans.  A  creed  like  this  .  .  .  allows  it  to  be  believed  that  all  the 
mass  of  evils  which  exists  was  undesigned  by,  and  exists  not  by  the 
appointment  of,  but  in  spite  of  the  Being  whom  we  are  called  upon 
to  worship.1 

Religion  and  science.  While  there  have  thus  been  genuine 
points  of  conflict  between  theology  and  science,  these  are 
essentially  irrelevant  to  the  religious  experience  itself.  Man 
is  still  moved  by  the  same  emotions,  sensations,  needs,  and 
desires  which  have,  from  the  dawn  of  history,  provoked  in 
him  a  sense  of  his  relationship  with  the  divine.  There  comes 
to  nearly  all  individuals  at  some  time,  not  without  rapture, 
a  sudden  awareness  of  divinity. 

It  is  the  terror  and  beauty  of  phenomena,  the  "promise"  of  the 
dawn  and  of  the  rainbow,  the  "voice"  of  the  thunder,  the  "gentle- 
1  Mill:  loe.  cit.,  p.  116. 


RELIGION  AND  RELIGIOUS  EXPERIENCE    321 

ness"  of  the  summer  rain,  the  "sublimity"  of  the  stars,  and  not  the 
physical  laws  which  these  things  follow,  by  which  the  religious  mind 
continues  to  be  most  impressed;  and  just  as  of  yore,  the  devout  man 
tells  you  that  in  the  solitude  of  his  room  or  of  the  fields  he  still  feels 
the  divine  presence,  that  inflowing  of  help  come  in  reply  to  his 
prayers,  and  that  sacrifices  to  this  unseen  reality  fill  him  with  se- 
curity and  peace.1 

Modern  man,  just  as  his  savage  ancestor  cowering  before 
forces  he  did  not  understand,  realizes  sometimes  —  some 
persons  realize  it  always  —  how  comparatively  helpless  is  man 
amid  the  magnificent  and  eternal  forces  in  which  his  own 
life  is  infinitesimally  set.  Even  when  one  has  been  educated 
to  the  sober  prose  of  science,  one  feels  still  the  ancient  emo- 
tions of  joy,  sorrow,  and  regret.  Birth  and  death,  sowing  and 
harvest,  conquest  or  calamity,  as  of  old,  evoke  a  sympathetic 
feeling  with  the  movement  of  cosmic  processes.  All  of  these 
emotions  to-day,  as  in  less  sophisticated  times,  may  take 
religious  form. 

Nor  does  the  universe  because  we  understand  it  better 
seem,  to  many,  less  worthy  of  worship.  The  most  thorough- 
going scientific  geniuses  have  felt  most  deeply  the  nobility 
and  grandeur  of  that  infinite  harmony  and  order  which  their 
own  genius  has  helped  to  discover.  It  has  been  well  said  the 
"undevout  astronomer  is  mad."  And  it  is  not  only  the  stu- 
dent of  the  stars  who  has  intimations  of  divinity.  As  Pro- 
fessor Keyser  puts  it:  "The  cosmic  times  and  spaces  of  mod- 
ern science  are  more  impressive  and  more  mysterious  than 
a  Mosaic  cosmogony  or  Plato's  crystal  spheres.  Day  is  just 
as  mysterious  as  night,  the  mystery  of  knowledge  is  more 
wonderful  and  awesome  than  the  darkness  of  the  unknown."  a 
It  is  significant  that  such  men  as  Newton,  Pasteur,  and  Fara- 
day, giants  of  modern  physical  inquiry,  were  devoutly  reli- 
gious. 

It  would  appear  indeed  that  the  objects  which  men  revere 
are  not  the  subject-matter  of  science.  Physics  and  chemistry 

1  James:  Varieties  of  Religious  Experience,  p.  498. 
*  Keyser:  Science  and  Religion,  p.  30. 


THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

can  tell  us  what  Nature  is  like;  they  cannot  tell  us  to  what  iiK 
Nature  we  shall  give  our  faith  and  our  allegiance.  Religion 
remains,  as  ever,  "loyalty  to  the  highest  values  of  hie."  Sci- 
ence instead  of  making  the  world  less  awesome  has  made  it 
more  mysterious  than  ever.  Origins  and  destinies  are  still 
unknown.  Science  tells  how;  it  describes.  It  does  not  tell 
why  things  occur  as  they  do;  or  what  is  the  significance  of 
their  occurrence.  Worship  can  never  be  reduced  to  molecules 
or  atoms.  While  man  lives  and  wonders,  hopes  and  fears, 
feels  the  clear  beauty,  the  infinite  mystery,  and  the  eternal 
significance  of  things,  the  religious  experience  will  remain,  and 
men  will  find  objects  worthy  of  their  worship. 

The  church  as  a  social  institution.  Religion  being  so  cru- 
cial a  set  of  social  habits,  institutions  arise  for  the  perpetua- 
tion of  its  traditions,  and  for  the  social  expression  of  the  reli- 
gious life.  The  churches  perpetuate  the  religious  tradition  in 
a  number  of  ways.  Fixed  ecclesiastical  systems,  recitals  and 
definitions  of  creeds,  the  regular  and  meticulous  performance 
of  rites  and  ceremonies,  become  powerful  instruments  for  the 
transmission  of  religious  ideas  and  standards.  Rites  fre- 
quently performed  by  men  in  mass  have  a  deep  and  moving 
influence.  They  have  at  once  all  the  pressure  and  prestige  of 
custom,  confirmed  by  the  mystery  and  awe  that  attends  any 
expression  of  man's  relationship  to  the  divine.  The  church, 
moreover,  by  the  mere  fact  of  being  an  institution,  having  a 
hierarchy,  an  ordered  procedure,  a  definite  assignment  and 
division  of  ecclesiastical  labor,  becomes  thereby  an  incom- 
parable preserver  and  transmitter  of  traditional  values. 

Churches,  ecclesiastical  organizations  in  general,  may  be 
said  to  arise  because  of  the  necessity  felt  by  men  for  inter- 
mediaries between  themselves  and  the  divine.  We  have 
already  seen  of  what  vast  practical  moment  in  savage  life  was 
communication  with  the  gods.  Upon  the  success  of  such  ad- 
dresses to  deity,  depended  not  only  the  salvation  of  the  soul, 
but  the  Actual  welfare  of  the  body  —  shelter,  harvest,  an(J, 
victory.  The  gods  among  many  tribes  were  held  to  be 


RELIGION  AND  RELIGIOUS  EXPERIENCE    323 

meticulous  about  the  forms  and  ceremonies  which  men  ad- 
dressed to  them.  In  consequence  it  became  important  to  have, 
as  it  were,  experts  in  the  supernatural,  men  who  knew  how  to 
win  the  favor  of  these  watchful  powers.  The  priests  were 
originally  identical  with  medicine  men  and  magicians.  They 
knew  the  workings  of  the  providential  forces.  In  their  hands 
lay,  at  least  indirectly,  the  welfare  of  the  tribe.  Their  princi- 
pal duties  were  to  administer  and  give  advice  as  to  the  worship 
of  the  gods.  Often  it  was  necessary  for  them  to  point  out  to 
the  lay  members  of  the  tribe  which  gods  to  worship  on  special 
occasions.  The  priests  being  accredited  with  a  superior 
knowledge  of  the  ways  of  the  gods,  they  were  required  to  in- 
fluence the  wind  and  rain,  to  cause  good  growth,  to  ensure 
success  hi  hunting  and  fishing,  to  cure  illness,  to  foretell  the 
future,  to  work  harm  upon  enemies.1 

There  is  more  than  one  criterion  by  which  men  may  be  set 
apart  as  priests.  Sometimes  they  are  those  who  in  a  mystic 
state  of  ecstasy  are  supposed  to  be  inspired  by  the  gods. 
During  their  trance  such  men  are  questioned  as  to  the  will  of 
the  divine.  Sometimes  they  become  renowned  through  their 
reputed  performance  of  an  occasional  miracle.  Again,  as 
magical  and  religious  ceremonies  become  more  complicated, 
there  is  a  deliberate  training  of  an  expert  class  to  perform 
these  essential  acts.  And,  whatever  be  the  source  of  the 
selection  of  the  priestly  class,  the  immense  influence  which 
their  functions  are  regarded  as  having  on  the  welfare  of  the 
tribe  causes  them  to  be  particularly  revered  and  often  feared 
by  the  lay  members  of  the  tribe.  In  more  civilized  and 
spiritual  religions,  the  priestly  or  professional  ecclesiastical 
class  is  no  longer  regarded  as  possessed  of  magical  powers  by 
which  it  can  coerce  divinity.  It  is  the  official  administrator 
of  the  ceremonies  of  religion,  is  especially  trained,  versed  and 
certificated  in  doctrine,  is  empowered  to  receive  confession, 
fix  penance,  and  the  like.  It  is  still  an  intermediary  between 

1  For  a  detailed  discussion  see  Hastings:  Encyclopaedia  of  Religion  and 
Ethics,  vol.  ii,  pp.  278-336. 


324  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

man  and  the  divine,  although  itself  not  possessing  any  super- 
natural powers. 

Where  ecclesiastical  organization  is  highly  developed  and 
has  become  controlling  in  the  life  of  a  people,  it  may  be  one  of 
the  most  powerful  forces  in  social  life.  Such,  for  example, 
might  be  said  of  the  Catholic  Church  during  the  Middle 
Ages: 

A  life  in  the  Church,  for  the  Church,  through  the  Church;  a  life 
which  she  blessed  in  mass  at  morning  and  sent  to  peaceful  rest  by 
the  vesper  hymn;  a  life  which  she  supported  by  the  constantly  recur- 
ring stimulus  of  the  sacraments,  relieving  it  by  confession,  purifying 
it  by  penance,  admonishing  it  by  the  presentation  of  visible  objects 
for  contemplation  and  worship  —  this  was  the  life  which  they  of  the 
Middle  Ages  conceived  as  the  rightful  life  of  Man;  it  was  the  actual 
life  of  many,  the  ideal  of  all.1 

Churches  may  also  come  to  acquire  political  functions. 
The  history  of  the  Church  is  for  many  centuries  the  leading 
factor  in  the  political  history  of  Europe,  nor  is  it  only  in 
Christendom  that  political  institutions  have  been  inextricably 
associated  with  religion. 

Religious  institutions  may,  as  pointed  out  in  the  case  of 
primitive  tribes,  acquire  educational  functions.  The  initia^ 
tion  ceremonies  hi  Australian  tribes  have  a  markedly  religious 
character.  In  the  higher  and  more  modern  religions  educa- 
tional functions  still  persist.  The  Catholic  Church  has  been 
regarded  as  the  educator  of  Europe.  Charlemagne's  endow- 
ment and  encouragement  of  education  was  largely  made 
effectual  through  the  Church.  The  grammarians  and  didac- 
tic writers,  the  poets,  the  encyclopaedists,  the  teachers  whom 
Charlemagne  endowed  and  gathered  about  him,  the  heads  of 
the  schools  which  he  founded,  were  all  churchmen.  Until 
very  recently  in  the  history  of  Europe  the  universities  and 
education  in  general  were  nearly  all  under  the  domination  of 
the  Church.  The  secularization  of  primary  education  in 
England  took  place  only  late  in  the  nineteenth  century,  and  it 

1  Bryce:  Holy  Roman  Empire,  p.  423. 


RELIGION  AND  RELIGIOUS  EXPERIENCE    325 

is  not  yet  a  generation  since  the  battle  over  the  seculariza- 
tion of  education  was  waged  in  France.  All  religious  sects 
maintain  on  a  smaller  or  larger  scale  educational  functions. 
Parochial  and  convent  schools  and  denominational  colleges 
are  contemporary  examples. 

The  social  consequences  of  institutionalized  religion.  The 
consequences  of  institutionalized  religion  in  social  develop- 
ment have  been  very  marked.  The  mere  association  of  large 
groups  in  a  common  faith  and  a  common  religious  interest  has 
been  a  considerable  factor  in  their  integration.  There  is  to 
be  noted  hi  the  first  place  the  common  emotional  sympathies 
aroused  by  the  participation  of  great  numbers  in  identical 
rites  and  ceremonies.  Any  widespread  social  habit  becomes 
weighted  with  emotional  values  for  its  members.  Particu- 
larly is  this  true  of  religious  habits,  the  mystery  and  magnifi- 
cence associated  with  which  deeply  intensify  their  emotional 
influence.  Again  religious  habits  are  given  a  unanimous  and 
high  social  approval,  especially  where  the  prohibitions  and 
commands  enforced  by  religion  are  conceived  ultimately  to 
affect  the  welfare  of  the  tribe.  The  prophets  reiterated  to  the 
people  of  Israel  that  their  calamities  were  the  result  of  their 
having  ceased  to  follow  in  the  ways  of  the  Lord.  The  posses- 
sion of  a  common  religious  history  and  tradition  may  also  give 
a  people  a  deepened  sense  of  group  solidarity.  The  national 
development  of  the  ancient  Hebrews  was  undoubtedly  pro- 
moted by  their  sense  of  being  the  chosen  people,  of  possessing 
exclusively  the  law  of  Jehovah. 

Again  religious  sanction  is  given  to  codes  of  belief ,  modes  of 
conduct,  and  to  institutions,  thus  at  once  strengthening  them 
and  making  change  difficult.  It  is  not  merely  customs  that 
are  obeyed  and  disobeyed,  but  the  sacred  commands.  A 
premium  is  put  upon  the  regular  and  traditional  because  of 
the  divine  sanction  associated  with  them.  To  violate  a 
prohibition,  even  a  slight  one,  becomes  thus  the  most  terrible 
sacrilege.  Customs  that,  like  the  hygienic  rules  of  the  Mosaic 
code,  may  have  started  as  genuine  social  utilities  are  main- 


326  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

tained  because  they  have  become  fixed  in  the  religious  tradi- 
tions as  enjoined  by  the  Lord.  In  consequence  there  may  be  a 
Pharisaical  insistence  on  the  performance  of  the  letter  of  the 
law,  long  after  its  practical  utility  or  spiritual  significance  is 
forgotten.  It  is  this  persistence  in  the  literal  fulfillments  of 
religious  commands  at  the  expense  of  the  spirit,  that  the 
Hebrew  prophets  so  vehemently  condemned.  Thus  pro- 
claims Isaiah: 

To  what  purpose  is  the  multitude  of  your  sacrifices  unto  me?  saith 
the  Lord:  I  am  full  of  the  b>urnt  offerings  of  rams,  and  the  fat  of  fed 
beasts.  .  .  . 

Bring  no  more  vain  oblations;  incense  is  an  abomination  unto 
me.  .  .  . 

Your  new  moons  and  your  appointed  feasts  my  soul  hateth:  they 
are  a  trouble  unto  me;  I  am  weary  to  bear  them.  .  .  . 

Wash  you,  make  you  clean;  put  away  the  evil  of  your  doings  from 
before  mine  eyes;  cease  to  do  evil; 

Learn  to  do  well;  seek  judgment,  relieve  the  oppressed,  judge  the 
fatherless,  plead  for  the  widow.1 

Institutions  and  modes  of  life,  even  when  they  are  not, 
strictly  speaking,  part  of  the  religious  tradition  proper,  are 
given  tremendous  sanction  and  confirmation  when  they  be- 
come embodied  in  the  religious  tradition.  The  institution  of 
the  family,  for  example,  through  the  strong  religious  sanctions 
and  values  implied  in  the  marriage  ceremony  and  relationship 
(especially  the  marriage  sacrament  of  the  Catholic  Church), 
comes  to  be  strongly  fortified  and  entrenched.  Change  in 
the  form  of  an  institution  so  hallowed  by  religion  is  something 
more  than  change;  it  is  sacrilege.  Governments  and  dynas- 
ties, again,  when  they  have  a  religious  sanction,  when  the 
King  rules  by  "divine  right,"  acquire  a  strong  additional 
source  of  persistence  and  power.  The  imperial  character  of 
the  Japanese  government  to-day,  for  example,  is  said  to  be 
greatly  enhanced  in  prestige  by  the  widespread  popular  belief 
that  the  Emperor  is  lineally  descended  from  divinity. 

Sometimes  religious  sanctions  have  inspired  and  promoted 

1  Isaiah  i :  11-17. 


RELIGION  AND  RELIGIOUS  EXPERIENCE    327 

zeal  for  social  enterprise.  The  Crusades  stand  out  as  classic 
instances,  but  in  the  name  of  religion  men  have  done  more 
than  build  cathedrals  and  go  on  pilgrimages.  In  the  Middle 
Ages,  bridges  and  roads  were  constructed,  alms  were  given, 
pictures  were  painted,  books  illuminated,  encyclopaedias 
made,  education  conducted,  all  under  the  auspices  and  in- 
spiration of  the  Church.  The  mediaeval  universities  started 
as  church  schools.  In  our  own  day,  the  expansion  of  the 
churches  in  the  direction  of  welfare  work  and  social  reform, 
the  use  of  the  church  as  a  community  center,  are  examples  of 
this  development.  Men  have  found  justification  by  good 
works  as  well  as  faith. 

Intolerance  and  inquisition.  The  influence  of  religious 
tradition  over  the  minds  of  its  followers  has  had,  among  many 
noble  and  beautiful  consequences,  the  dark  fruits  of  intoler- 
ance, persecution,  inquisition,  and  torture.  Part  of  the  bitter 
narrow-mindedness  which  has  characterized  the  history  of 
ecclesiastical  institutions  is  not  to  be  attributed  specifically 
to  religion.  It  is  rather  to  be  explained  by  the  general  un- 
easiness which  the  gregarious  human  creature  feels  at  any 
deviation  from  the  accustomed.  In  addition  men  have  felt 
frequently  that  any  divergence  from  the  divinely  ordained 
would  bring  destruction  upon  the  whole  group.  In  the  Chris- 
tian tradition  there  was  an  additional  reason  for  intolerance: 
the  heretic  was  willfully  losing  his  own  soul,  and  it  was  only 
humane  to  compel  him  to  come  "into  the  fold,  to  rescue  him 
from  the  pains  he  would  otherwise  suffer  in  Hell." 

The  profound  conviction  that  those  who  did  not  believe  in  its  doc- 
trines would  be  damned  eternally,  and  that  God  punishes  theological 
error  as  if  it  were  the  most  heinous  of  crimes,  led  naturally  to  perse- 
cution. It  was  a  duty  to  impose  on  men  the  only  true  doctrine,  see- 
ing that  their  own  eternal  interests  were  at  stake,  and  to  hinder  errors 
from  spreading.  Heretics  were  more  than  ordinary  criminals,  and 
the  pains  that  man  could  inflict  on  them  were  as  nothing  to  the  tor- 
tures awaiting  them  in  hell.1 

1  Bury:  History  of  Freedom  of  ThougJit,  pp.  52-53. 


828  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

In  fevered  zeal  for  the  Faith  began  that  long  hunting  and 
punishment  of  heresy,  which  has  done  so  much  to  darken  the 
history  of  religion  in  Western  Europe.  There  were,  as  in  the 
Albigcnsian  Crusade,  wholesale  burnings  and  hangings  of  men, 
women,  and  children.1  Heresy  was  hunted  out  in  secret  re- 
treats. "It  was  the  foulest  of  crimes;  to  prevail  against  it 
was  to  prevail  against  the  legions  of  Hell."  The  culmination 
of  intolerance  was,  of  course,  the  Inquisition.  One  need  not 
pause  to  recall  its  espionage  system,  its  search  for  the  spreaders 
of  false  doctrine,  its  use  of  any  and  every  witness  against  the 
suspect,  its  granting  of  indulgences  to  any  one  who  should 
bear  witness  against  him,  its  "relaxing  of  the  criminal  to  the 
secular  arm, "  which  unfailingly  punished  him  with  death.  It 
must  be  pointed  out  that  in  the  instance  of  the  Inquisition, 
just  as  hi  the  case  of  all  religious  persecution,  the  motives 
were  most  frequently  of  the  noblest.  "In  the  Middle  Ages 
and  after,  men  of  kindly  temper  and  the  purest  zeal  were 
absolutely  devoid  of  mercy  when  heresy  was  suspected."  Nor 
are  intolerance  and  persecution  to  be  laid  exclusively  at  the 
door  of  any  one  religion.  In  Protestant  countries,  in  England 
and  Scotland,  the  persecution  and  torture  of  alleged  witches  is 
one  of  the  most  painful  instances  of  the  cruelties  into  which 
men  can  be  led  by  loyalty  to  then*  religious  convictions.  And 
Mohammedanism  vividly  taught  men  how  a  faith  might  be 
spread  by  fire  and  sword. 

Quietism  and  consolation  —  Other-worldliness.  Many 
religions,  including  Christianity,  have  emphasized  "other- 
worldliness."  This  has  most  frequently  taken  the  form  of 
emphasis  on  the  life  to  come.  This  world  has  been  conceived, 
as  it  were,  as  a  prelude  to  eternity.  In  the  Christian  world 
scheme,  as  most  clearly  expounded  and  universally  accepted 
during  the  Middle  Ages,  man's  chief  imperative  business  was 
salvation.  All  else  was  trivial  in  comparison  with  that  in- 
comparable eternal  bliss  which  would  be  the  reward  of  the 
virtuous,  and  that  unending  agony  which  would  be  the  penalty 

1  Ibid.,  pp.  56-57. 


RELIGION  AND  RELIGIOUS  EXPERIENCE    329 

for  the  damned.  "Salvation  was  the  master  Christian  mo- 
tive. The  Gospel  of  Christ  was  a  gospel  of  salvation  unto 
eternal  life.  It  presented  itself  in  the  self-sacrifice  of  divine 
love,  not  without  warnings  touching  its  rejection."1 

Where  interest  is  centered  on  a  world  to  come,  there  not 
infrequently  results  a  loss  of  interest  and  discrimination  in  the 
goods  of  earthly  life.  "For  what  shall  it  profit  a  man  if  he 
shall  gain  the  whole  world  and  lose  his  own  soul?"  The 
beauties,  goods,  and  distinctions  of  this  world  coalesce  into  an 
indiscriminate  triviality  hi  comparison  with  that  infinite  glory 
hereafter  to  be  attained.  One  does  not  trouble  one's  self 
about  the  furniture  of  earthly  life  any  more  than  one  would 
take  pains  with  the  beautification  of  a  room  in  which  one  hap- 
pens to  be  lodged  for  a  night. 

Lay  not  up  for  yourselves  treasures  upon  earth,  where  moth  and 
rust  doth  corrupt,  and  where  thieves  break  through  and  steal. 

But  lay  up  for  yourselves  treasures  in  Heaven,  where  neither  moth 
nor  rust  doth  corrupt,  and  where  thieves  do  not  break  through  nor 
steal. 

Though  on  earth  you  may  live  in  squalor,  poverty,  and  dis- 
ease, yet  "in  my  Father's  house  are  many  mansions." 

Poverty,  indeed,  became  in  the  Middle  Ages  one  of  the  vows 
of  monastic  orders.  In  the  New  Testament  it  is  prescribed, 
"Blessed  are  the  poor  in  spirit "  and  the  doctrine  was  in  many 
cases  literally  accepted. 

If  any  one  of  you  will  know  whether  he  is  really  poor  in  spirit,  let 
him  consider  whether  he  loves  the  ordinary  consequences  and  effects 
of  poverty,  which  are  hunger,  thirst,  cold,  fatigue,  and  the  denuda- 
tion of  all  conveniences.  See  if  you  are  glad  to  wear  a  worn-out 
habit  full  of  patches.  See  if  you  are  glad  when  something  is  lacking 
to  your  meal,  when  you  are  passed  by  in  serving  it,  when  what  you 
receive  is  distasteful  to  you,  when  your  cell  is  out  of  repair.  If  you 
are  not  glad  of  these  things,  if  instead  of  loving  them  you  avoid 
them,  then  there  is  proof  that  you  have  not  attained  the  perfection 
of  poverty  of  spirit.* 

1  H.  O.  Taylor:  Mediemal  Mind,  vol.  I,  p.  61. 

1  Alfonso  Rodriguez :  Pratique  de  la  Perfection  Chretienne,  part  in,  treatise 
xii,  chap,  vi ;  quoted  in  James's  Varieties  of  Religious  Experience,  p.  315. 


830  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

Contempt  for  this  world's  goods,  when  generalized,  pro- 
motes an  attitude  of  indifference  to  the  social  conditions  in 
which  men  live.  The  history  of  the  saints  is  filled  with  refer- 
ences to  their  endurance  of  pain,  ill  health,  poverty,  and 
disease.  And  the  "world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil"  are  for 
some  types  of  religious  mind  all  one.  For  such,  to  be  en- 
gaged in  social  betterment  is  an  irrelevant  business,  it  is  to 
be  lost  hi  the  world.  People's  souls  must  be  saved;  not  their 
bodies. 

Religions,  on  the  other  hand,  have  frequently  emphasized 
man's  social  duty.  In  Christianity  this  is  largely  a  derivative 
of  the  highly  regarded  virtue  of  Charity.  Interest  in  one's 
own  well-being  was  a  prerequisite  for  the  devout,  but  interest 
in  the  welfare  of  others  was  equally  enjoined.  To  help  the 
poor  and  the  needy,  the  widowed  and  the  fatherless,  to  bring 
succor  to  the  oppressed  and  justice  to  the  downtrodden,  have 
been  part  of  the  religion  whose  Founder  taught  that  all  men 
were  the  children  of  their  Father  in  Heaven.  The  mendicant 
orders  of  the  Middle  Ages  were  devoted  to  philanthropic  works; 
and  with  religious  institutions,  throughout  their  history,  have 
been  associated  works  of  philanthropy  and  social  welfare. 
Very  recently  urban  churches  in  this  country  have  been  show- 
ing a  tendency  to  reorganize  with  emphasis  on  the  church  as  an 
instrument  of  social  cooperation  rather  than  as  an  aloof  ex- 
ponent of  dogmatic  theology.  It  is  the  ideal  of  some  liberal 
theologians  to  use  the  churches  chiefly  as  instruments  for 
giving  social  effectiveness  to  the  religious  impulse  and  at  the 
same  time  for  making  social  betterment  a  spiritual  enterprise. 


CHAPTER  XIII 
ART  AND  THE  AESTHETIC  EXPERIENCE 

Art  versus  nature.  In  the  Career  of  Reason  man  has  grad- 
ually learned  to  control  the  world  in  which  he  lives  in  the  in- 
terests of  his  own  welfare  as  he  imaginatively  contemplated  it. 
Deliberate  control  has  been  made  necessary  because  of  the 
fact  that  man  is  born  into  a  world  which  was  not  made  for 
him,  but  in  which  he  must,  if  anywhere,  grow;  in  a  world  which 
was  not  designed  to  fulfill  his  desires,  but  where  alone  his 
desires  can  find  fulfillment.  Art  may  thus,  in  the  broadest 
sense,  be  set  over  against  Nature.  It  is  the  activity  by  which 
man  realizes  ideals.  He  may  realize  them  practically,  as  when 
he  builds  a  house  which  he  has  first  imagined,  or  reaps  a  har- 
vest in  anticipation  of  which  he  has  first  sown  the  seeds.  He 
may  realize  them  imaginatively,  as  when  hi  color,  form,  or 
sound  he  creates  some  desiderated  beauty  out  of  the  crude 
miscellaneous  materials  of  experience.  Art,  in  the  broad 
sense  of  control  or  direction  of  Nature,  arises  hi  the  double 
fact  of  man's  instinctive  activities  and  desires  and  the  inade- 
quacy of  the  environment  as  it  stands  to  afford  them  satis- 
faction. Because  nature  is  not  considerate  of  his  needs,  man 
must  himself  take  forethought,  and  devise  means  by  which 
the  forces  and  the  materials  of  Nature  may  be  exploited  to  his 
own  good.  And  the  realization  of  this  forethought  is  made 
possible  through  the  fact  that  natural  conditions  do  lend  them- 
selves to  modification.  Nature,  though  indifferent  to  man's 
welfare,  is  yet  partly  congruous  with  it.  While  the  wind 
blows  careless  of  the  good  or  ill  it  does  to  him,  yet  man  may 
learn  by  means  of  windmills  or  sailboats  to  turn  the  wind  to 
his  own  interest.  Though  the  river  may  flow  on  forever, 
oblivious  to  the  men  that  come  and  go  along  its  shores,  yet 
the  passing  generations  may  transform  this  undetiberate 


832  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

flowing  into  the  power  that  yields  them  clothing,  machinery, 
and  transportation.  All  civilization  is,  as  Mill  says,  an  exhibi- 
tion of  Art  or  Contrivance;  it  is  illustrated  by 

the  junction  by  bridges  of  shores  which  Nature  had  made  separate, 
the  draining  of  Nature's  marshes,  the  excavation  of  her  wells,  the 
dragging  to  light  of  what  she  has  buried  at  immense  depths  in  the 
earth;  the  turning  away  of  her  thunderbolts  by  lightning  rods;  of  her 
inundations  by  embankments,  of  her  oceans  by  breakwaters.1 

By  irrigation  man  has  learned  to  make  the  "wilderness  blos- 
som as  the  rose."  By  railways,  telegraphs,  and  telephones,  he 
has  learned  to  minimize  the  obstacles  that  time  and  space  offer 
to  the  fulfillment  of  his  desires.  By  controlling,  by  means  of 
education  and  social  organization,  his  own  instincts  in  the 
light  of  the  purposes  he  would  attain,  by  studying  "the  secret 
processes  of  Nature,"  man  has  learned  to  make  the  world  a  fit 
habitation  for  himself.  To  dig,  to  plough,  to  sow,  to  reap,  are 
instances  of  the  means  whereby  man  has  applied  intelligent 
control  to  his  half-friendly,  half-hostile  environment. 

Man's  deliberate  control  of  Nature  arises  thus  under  the 
sharp  pressure  of  practical  necessity.  Man  is  inherently 
active,  but,  as  pointed  out  in  an  earlier  connection,  his  activity 
takes  coherent  and  consecutive  form  primarily  under  the  com- 
pulsion of  satisfying  his  physical  wants,  of  finding  food,  cloth- 
ing, and  shelter.  The  greater  part  of  human  energy,  cer- 
tainly under  primitive  conditions,  is  devoted  to  maintaining  a 
precarious  equilibrium  among  the  mysterious  and  terrifying 
forces  of  a  half-understood  environment.  There  is  not  much 
time  for  leisure,  play,  or  art,  where  food  is  a  continuously 
urgent  problem,  where  one's  shelter  is  likely  to  be  destroyed  by 
storm  or  wind,  where  one  is  threatened  incessantly  by  beasts 
of  prey,  and,  as  primitive  man  supposed,  by  capricious  super- 
natural powers.  Under  such  circumstances,  Me  is  largely 
spent  in  instrumental  or  imperative  pursuits.  Action  is 
fixed  by  necessity.  It  is  controlled  with  immediate  and  urgent 

1  Mill:  Three  Essays  on  Religion,  p.  19  (essay  on  "Nature"). 


ART  AND  THE  /ESTHETIC  EXPERIENCE    333 

reference  to  the  business  of  keeping  alive.  There  is  scarcely 
time  for  the  activity  of  art,  which  is  spontaneous  and  free. 

In  civilized  life,  also,  the  greater  part  of  human  energy 
must  be  spent  in  necessary  or  instrumental  business.  Men 
must,  as  always,  be  fed,  clothed,  and  housed,  and  the  fulfill- 
ment of  these  primary  human  demands  absorbs  the  greater 
part  of  the  waking  hours  of  the  majority  of  mankind.  Our 
civilization  is  predominantly  industrial;  it  is  devoted  almost 
entirely  to  the  transforming  of  the  world  of  nature  into  prod- 
ucts for  the  gratification  of  the  physical  wants  of  men.  These 
wants  have,  of  course,  become  much  complicated  and  refined : 
men  wish  not  only  to  live,  but  to  live  commodiously  and  well. 
They  want  not  merely  a  roof  over  their  heads,  but  a  pleasant 
and  comfortable  house  in  which  to  live.  They  want  not 
merely  something  to  stave  off  starvation,  but  palatable  foods. 
In  the  satisfaction  of  these  increasingly  complicated  demands 
a  great  diversity  of  industries  arises.  With  every  new  want  to 
be  fulfilled,  there  is  a  new  occupation,  pursued  not  for  its  own 
sake,  but  for  the  sake  of  the  good  which  it  produces.  There 
are  industrial  leaders,  of  course,  who  find  in  the  development 
and  control  of  the  productive  energies  of  thousands  of  men, 
in  the  manipulation  of  immense  natural  resources,  satisfac- 
tions analogous  to  that  of  the  fine  artist.  But  for  most 
men  engaged  in  the  routine  operations  of  industry,  the  work 
they  do  is  clearly  not  pursued  on  its  own  account.  Industry, 
viewed  in  the  total  context  of  the  activities  of  civilization, 
is  a  practical  rather  than  a  fine  art.  Its  ideal  is  efficiency, 
which  means  economy  of  effort.  Its  interest  is  primarily  in 
producing  many  goods  cheaply. 

The  emergence  of  the  fine  arts.  In  the  sharp  struggle  of 
man  with  his  environment,  those  instincts  survived  which 
were  of  practical  use.  The  natural  impulses  with  which  a 
human  being  is  at  birth  endowed,  are  chiefly  those  which 
enable  him  to  cope  successfully  and  efficiently  with  his  envi- 
ronment. But  even  in  primitive  life,  so  exuberant  and  resilient 
is  human  energy  that  it  is  not  exhausted  by  necessary  labors. 


334  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

The  plastic  arts,  for  example,  began  in  the  practical  business 
of  pottery  and  weaving.  The  weaver  and  the  potter  who 
have  acquired  skill  and  who  have  a  little  more  vitality  than 
is  required  for  turning  out  something  that  is  merely  useful, 
turn  out  something  that  is  also  beautiful.  The  decorations 
which  are  made  upon  primitive  pottery  exhibit  the  excess  vi- 
tality and  skill  of  the  virtuoso.  Similarly,  religious  ritual, 
which,  as  we  have  seen,  arises  in  practical  commerce  with 
the  gods,  comes  to  be  in  itself  cherished  and  beautiful.  The 
chants  which  are  prescribed  invocations  of  divinity,  become 
songs  intrinsically  interesting  to  singer  and  listener  alike;  the 
dance  ceases  to  be  merely  a  necessary  religious  form  and  be- 
comes an  occasion  of  beauty  and  delight.  Jane  Harrison  has 
shown  in  detail  how  ritual  arises  out  of  practical  need,  and 
art  out  of  ritual.1  Thus  the  Greek  drama  had  its  beginnings 
in  Greek  religion;  the  incidental  beauty  of  the  choruses  of 
the  Greek  festivals  developed  into  the  eventual  tragic  art  of 
JEschylus,  Sophocles,  and  Euripides.  Ceasing  to  be  a  prac- 
tical invocation  to  the  gods  it  became  an  artistic  enterprise 
in  and  for  itself.  Repeatedly  we  find  in  primitive  lif e  that 
activity  is  not  exhausted  in  agriculture,  hunting,  and  handi- 
craft, or  in  a  desperate  commerce  with  divinity.  Harvest 
becomes  a  festival,  pottery  becomes  an  opportunity  for  deco- 
ration, and  prayer,  for  poetry.  Even  in  primitive  life  men 
find  the  leisure  to  let  their  imaginations  loiter  over  these 
intrinsically  lovely  episodes  hi  their  experience. 

The  potter  may  be  more  interested  in  making  a  beautifully 
moulded  and  decorated  vessel  than  merely  hi  turning  out  a 
thing  of  use;  the  maker  of  baskets  may  come  to  "play  with 
his  materials,"  to  make  baskets  not  so  much  for  their  useful- 
ness as  for  the  possible  beauty  of  their  patterns.  When  this 
interest  in  beauty  becomes  highly  developed,  and  when  cir- 
cumstances permit,  the  fine  arts  arise.  The  crafts  come  to 
be  practiced  as  intrinsically  interesting  employments  of  the 
creative  imagination.  The  moulding  of  miscellaneous  mate- 

1  See  Jane  Harrison:  Ancient  Art  and  Ritual,  especially  chap.  i. 


ART  AND  THE  AESTHETIC  EXPERIENCE    335 

rials  into  beautiful  forms  becomes  a  beloved  habitual  practice. 

The  context  in  which  art  appears  in  primitive  life  is  paral- 
leled in  civilized  society.  The  energies  of  men  are  still  largely 
consumed  in  necessary  pursuits.  Men  must,  as  of  old,  by  the 
inadequacy  of  the  natural  order  in  which  they  find  them- 
selves, find  means  by  which  to  live;  and,  being  by  nature  con- 
stituted so  that  they  must  live  together,  they  must  find  ways 
of  living  together  justly  and  harmoniously.  "Industry," 
writes  Santayana,  "  merely  gives  to  Nature  that  form  which, 
if  more  thoroughly  humane,  she  might  already  have  possessed 
for  our  benefit."  It  is  creative  in  so  far  as  it  transforms  matter 
from  its  crude  indifferent  state  to  forms  better  adapted  to 
human  ideals.  It  makes  cotton  into  cloth,  wool  into  clothing, 
wheat  into  flour,  leather  into  shoes,  coal  into  light  and  power, 
iron  into  skyscrapers.  It  is  devoted  to  annulling  the  dis- 
crepancies between  nature  and  human  nature.  It  turns  refrac- 
tory materials  and  obdurate  forces  into  commodious  goods 
and  useful  powers. 

But,  hi  the  broadest  sense,  industry  is  a  means  to  an  end. 
Interesting  and  attractive  it  may  well  become,  as  when  a 
bookbinder  or  a  printer  takes  a  craftsman's  proud  delight  in 
the  manner  in  which  he  performs  his  work,  and  in  the  quality 
of  its  product.  But  the  industrial  arts,  for  the  most  part, 
Berve  more  ultimate  purposes.  It  is  imaginable  that  Nature 
might  have  provided  clothing,  food,  and  shelter  ready  to  our 
hand.  It  is  questionable  whether  under  such  circumstances 
men  would  out  of  deliberate  choice  continue  industries  which 
are  now  made  imperative  through  necessity.  The  mines  and 
the  stockyards  are  necessary  rather  than  beautiful  or  intrinsi- 
cally attractive  occupations.  But  in  the  world  of  fact,  those 
things  which  are  necessary  to  us  are  not  ready  to  our  hand. 
Our  civilization  is  predominantly  industrial,  and  must  be  so, 
if  the  billion  and  a  half  inhabitants  of  our  world  are  to  be 
maintained  by  the  resources  at  our  command. 

Nevertheless  despite  the  absorption  of  a  large  proportion  of 
contemporary  society  in  activities  pursued  not  for  their  own 


836  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

sakes,  but  for  the  goods  which  are  their  fruits,  there  is  still,  as 
it  were,  energy  left  over.  This  excess  vitality  may,  as  it  does 
for  most  men,  take  the  form  of  mere  unorganized  play  or 
recreation.  But  not  so  for  those  born  with  a  singular  gift  for 
realizing  in  color  or  form  or  sound  the  ideal  values  which  they 
have  imagined.  For  these  "play"  is  creative  production. 
The  fine  arts  are,  in  a  sense,  the  play  of  the  race.  They  are 
the  fruits  of  such  energy  as  is,  through  some  fortunate  acci- 
dent of  temperament  or  circumstance,  not  caught  up  in  the 
routine  and  mechanics  of  industry  or  the  trivialities  of  sport 
or  pleasure.  They  are  human  activities,  freed  from  the  limita- 
tions imposed  by  the  exigencies  of  practical  lif  e,  and  controlled 
only  by  the  artist's  imagined  visions.  Creative  activity  is 
most  explicit  and  most  successful  in  the  fine  arts,  because  in 
these  there  are  fewer  obstacles  to  the  material  realization  of 
imagined  perfections.  "The  liberal  arts  bring  to  spiritual 
fruition  the  matter  which  either  nature  or  industry  has  pre- 
pared and  rendered  propitious." 

The  industrial  arts  are,  as  already  pointed  out,  man's 
transformation  of  natural  resources  to  ideal  uses.  In  the  same 
way  political  and  social  organization  are  human  arts,  enter- 
prises, at  their  best,  hi  the  moulding  of  men's  natures  to  their 
highest  possible  realization.  But  in  the  world,  of  action, 
whether  political  or  industrial,  there  are  incomparably  greater 
hindrances  to  the  realization  in  practice  of  imagined  goods 
than  there  are,  at  least  to  the  gifted,  in  the  fine  arts.  Every 
ideal  for  which  men  attempt  to  find  fulfillment  in  the  world  of 
action  is  subject  to  a  thousand  accidental  deflections  of  cir- 
cumstance. Every  enterprise  involves  conflicting  wills;  the 
larger  the  enterprise,  the  more  various  and  probably  the  more 
conflicting  the  interests  involved.  Social  movements  have 
their  courses  determined  by  factors  altogether  beyond  the  con- 
trol of  their  originators.  Statesmen  can  start  wars,  but  can- 
not define  their  eventual  fruits.  A  man  may  found  a  political 
party,  and  live  to  see  it  wander  far  from  the  ideal  which  he 
had  framed.  But  in  the  fine  arts,  to  the  imaginatively  and 


ART  AND  THE  AESTHETIC  EXPERIENCE    837 

technically  endowed,  the  materials  are  prepared  and  con- 
trollable. In  the  hands  of  a  master,  action  does  not  wander 
from  intent.  Language  to  the  poet,  for  example,  is  an  im- 
mediate and  responsive  instrument;  he  can  mould  it  precisely 
to  his  ideal  intention.  The  enterprise  of  poetry  is  less  de- 
pendent almost  than  any  other  undertaking  on  the  accidents 
of  circumstance,  outside  the  poet's  initial  imaginative  re- 
sources. In  music,  even  so  simple  an  instrument  as  a  flute 
can  yield  perfection  of  sound.  The  composer  of  a  symphony 
can  invent  a  perpetual  uncorroded  beauty;  the  sculptor  an 
immortality  of  irrefutably  persuasive  form.  This  explains  in 
part  why  so  many  artists,  of  a  reflective  turn  of  mind,  are 
pessimists  in  practical  affairs.  The  world  of  action  with  its 
perpetual  and  pitiful  frustrations,  failures,  and  compromises, 
seems  incomparably  poor,  paltry,  and  sordid,  in  comparison 
with  the  perfection  that  is  attainable  in  art. 

Haunting  foreshadowings  of  the  temple  appear  in  the  realm  of 
imagination,  in  music,  in  architecture,  in  the  untroubled  kingdom  of 
reason,  and  in  the  golden  sunset  magic  of  lyrics,  where  beauty  shines 
and  glows,  remote  from  the  touch  of  sorrow,  remote  from  the  fear  of 
change,  remote  from  the  failures  and  disenchantment  of  the  world  of 
fact.  In  the  contemplation  of  these  things  the  vision  of  heaven  will 
shape  itself  in  our  hearts,  giving  at  once  a  touchstone  to  judge  the 
world  about  us,  and  an  inspiration  by  which  to  fashion  to  our  needs 
whatever  is  capable  of  serving  as  a  stone  in  the  sacred  temple.1 

The  creative  artist  gives  such  form  to  the  miscellaneous 
materials  at  his  disposal  that  they  give  satisfaction  not  only 
to  the  senses  or  the  intellect,  but  to  the  imagination.  What 
constitute  some  of  the  chief  elements  in  the  aesthetic  experi- 
ence, we  shall  presently  examine.  It  must  first  be  pointed 
out  that  in  general  in  the  fine  arts  creative  genius  has  found 
ways  of  imaginatively  attaining  perfections  not  usually  ac- 
corded in  the  experiences  of  the  senses,  in  the  life  of  society, 
or  in  the  life  of  the  mind. 

The  region  called  imagination  has  pleasures  more  airy  and  lum> 
1  Bertrand  Russell:  Philosophical  Essays,  pp.  6&-66. 


338  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

nous  than  those  of  sense,  more  massive  and  rapturous  than  those  of 
intelligence.  The  values  inherent  in  imagination,  in  instant  intui- 
tion, in  sense  endowed  with  form,  are  called  aesthetic  values;  they  are 
found  mainly  in  nature  and  in  living  beings,  but  also  in  man's  arti- 
ficial works,  in  images  evoked  by  language,  and  in  the  realm  of 
sound.1 

The  painter  imagines  and  seeks  to  realize  hues  and  intensi- 
ties of  color  more  satisfying  and  more  suggestive  than  those 
commonly  experienced  in  nature,  save  in  the  occasional  grace 
of  sunset  on  a  mountain  lake,  or  the  miracle  of  moonlight 
on  the  ocean.  The  artist  takes  his  hints  from  nature,  but 
clothes  the  suggestions  of  sense  with  the  values  and  motives 
which  exist  only  in  his  own  mind  and  imagination.  A  Turner 
sunset  is,  as  Oscar  Wilde  points  out,  in  a  sense  incomparably 
superior  to  one  provided  by  nature.  It  not  only  gives  the 
beautiful  sensations  to  be  had  in  a  landscape  suffused  with 
the  sunset  glow;  it  infuses  into  this  experience  the  passionate 
and  penetrating  insight  of  a  genius.  The  artist,  to  an  extent, 
imitates  nature.  But,  if  that  were  all  he  did,  he  would  be  no 
more  than  a  photographer.  He  pictures  nature,  but  gives  it 
"tint  and  melody  and  breath";  he  gives  it  a  value  and  signi- 
ficance derived  from  his  own  imaginative  vision.  The  musi- 
cian combines  sounds  more  significant,  ordered,  and  rhyth- 
mical than  those  miscellaneous  noises  which,  in  ordinary 
experience,  beat  indifferently  or  painfully  upon  our  ears. 
The  poet  selects  words  whose  specific  music,  rhythmical 
combinations,  and  lyrical  context  produce  a  something  more 
evocative,  compelling,  and  euphonic  than  the  casual  and 
raucous  instrument  of  communication  which  constitutes 
ordinary  speech. 

Not  only  do  poets  give  imaginative  and  ideal  extensions  to 
sense  experience;  they  do  as  much  with  and  for  social  life. 
In  the  dreaming  of  Utopias,  in  the  building  of  the  Perfect 
City,  men  have  found  compensations  for  the  imperfect  cities 
which  have  been  their  experiences  on  earth.  They  build 

1  Santayaiia:  Reason  in  Art,  p.  15. 


ART  AND  THE  AESTHETIC  EXPERIENCE    339 

themselves  in  imagination  a  world  where  all  injustices  are 
erased,  where  beauty  is  perennial,  where  truth,  courage, 
kindliness,  and  merriment  are  the  pervasive  colors  of  life. 
In  the  activity  of  creative  art,  man's  imagination  has  reached 
out  beyond  the  confines  of  nature  and  of  history,  and  built 
itself,  in  marble  and  in  music,  in  lyrics  and  in  legends,  hints 
of  that  enchanting  possible,  of  which  the  impoverished  actual 
gives  tentative  and  tenuous  hints. 

In  some  men  sensitivity  to  the  imaginative  possibilities  of 
the  materials  of  Nature  is  so  high,  that  they  can  find  satis- 
factory activity  nowhere  else  than  in  one  or  another  of  the 
fine  arts.  These  are  the  poets,  the  musicians,  and  the  sculp- 
tors, who  seek  to  give  realization  hi  the  arts  in  the  technique 
of  which  they  are  especially  gifted,  to  that  imagined  beauty 
by  the  ultimate  experience  of  which  they  live.  In  one  way  or 
another  the  creative  artist  seeks  to  give  form  and  dimension  to 

"The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land, 
The  consecration  and  the  poet's  dream." 

This  creative  impulse  may  find  its  realization,  as  already 
pointed  out,  in  industry,  though,  with  the  highly  routine 
character  of  most  men's  occupations  in  present-day  industrial 
life,  there  is  not  much  opportunity  for  imaginative  activity. 
That  both  work  and  happiness  would  be  promoted  by  the 
encouragement  of  the  craftsman  ideal  goes  without  saying. 
Whether  or  not  it  is  possible  to  utilize  the  creative  impulses 
in  the  processes  of  industry  as  now  organized,  there  are  in- 
stances where  the  joy  of  craftsmanship  may  be  exploited  both 
for  the  happiness  of  the  worker  and  the  good  of  the  work. 
The  William  Morris  ideal  of  the  artist-worker  may  be  hard  to 
attain,  but  it  is  none  the  less  desirable,  both  for  the  sake  of  the 
worker  and  his  work. 

In  science  the  uses  of  the  imagination  have  been  fre- 
quently commented  on,  not  least  by  scientists.  The  pa- 
tient collection  of  facts,  the  digging  and  measurement  and 
inquiry  that  characterize  so  much  of  scientific  investigation 


340  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

are  not  the  whole  of  it.  Inference,  the  forming  of  a  generali- 
zation, is  frequently  described  "as  a  leap  from  the  known  to 
the  unknown,"  and  this  discovery  of  a  binding  principle  that 
brings  together  a  wide  variety  of  disconnected  facts  is  not  un- 
like the  process  of  the  creative  artist.  The  same  unconscious 
method  by  which  a  poet  hits  upon  an  appropriate  epithet,  a 
musician  upon  a  melody,  a  painter  upon  an  effect  of  color 
or  line  is  displayed  in  that  sudden  vivid  flash  of  insight  by 
which  a  scientist  sees  a  mass  of  facts  that  have  long  seemed 
bafflingly  contradictory,  gathered  up  under  a  single  luminous 
law.  In  his  famous  essay  on  "The  Scientific  Uses  of  the 
Imagination,"  Tyndall  writes: 

We  are  gifted  with  the  power  of  Imagination,  .  .  .  and  by  this 
power  we  can  lighten  the  darkness  which  surrounds  the  world  of  the 
senses.  There  are  tories  even  in  science  who  regard  imagination  as 
a  faculty  to  be  feared  and  avoided  rather  than  employed.  They  had 
observed  its  action  in  weak  vessels  and  were  unduly  impressed  by  its 
disasters.  But  they  might  with  equal  justice  point  to  exploded 
boilers  as  an  argument  against  the  use  of  steam.  Bounded  and  con- 
ditioned by  cooperant  Reason,  imagination  becomes  the  mightiest 
instrument  of  the  physical  discoverer.  Newton's  passage  from  a 
falling  apple  to  a  falling  moon  was,  at  the  outset,  a  leap  of  the 
imagination.  When  William  Thomson  tries  to  place  the  ultimate 
particles  of  matter  between  his  compass  points,  and  to  apply  to  them 
a  scale  of  millimetres,  he  is  powerfully  aided  by  this  faculty.  And 
in  much  that  has  been  recently  said  about  protoplasm  and  life,  we 
have  the  outgoings  of  the  imagination  guided  and  controlled  by  the 
known  analogies  of  science.  In  fact,  without  this  power,  our  knowl- 
edge of  Nature  would  be  a  mere  tabulation  of  coexistences  and 
sequences.  We  should  still  believe  in  the  succession  of  day  and 
night,  of  summer  and  winter;  but  the  soul  of  Force  would  be  dis- 
lodged from  our  universe;  causal  ^relations  would  disappear,  and 
with  them  that  science  which  is  now  binding  the  parts  of  nature  into 
an  organic  whole.1 

As  we  shall  presently  see,  this  imaginative  leap  is  guarded 
and  controlled,  so  that  no  flash  of  insight,  however  attractive, 
is  uncritically  accepted.  But  the  origin  of  every  eventually 

1  Tyndall:  Fragments  of  Science,  pp.  130-31. 


ART  AND  THE  AESTHETIC  EXPERIENCE    341 

accepted  hypothesis  lies  in  the  upshoot  of  irresponsible  fancy, 
differing  not  at  all  from  the  images  in  the  mind  of  a  poet  or 
painter  or  the  melodies  that  unpredictably  occur  to  a  musi- 
cian. 

The  aesthetic  experience.  Art  is,  on  its  creative  side,  as  we 
have  seen,  the  control  of  Nature  in  the  practical  or  imagina- 
tive realization  of  ideals.  The  industrial  arts  are  pursued  out 
of  necessity,  because  man  must  find  himself  ways  of  living 
in  a  world  which  he  must  inhabit,  though  it  is  not  a  prior 
arranged  for  his  habitation.  The  fine  arts  are  pursued  as 
ends  in  themselves.1  The  genuinely  gifted  sing,  paint,  write 
poetry,  apart  from  fame  and  reward,  for  the  sheer  pleasure  of 
creation.  But  the  products  of  these  creative  activities  them- 
selves become  satisfactions  on  a  par  with  other  natural  goods. 
The  objects  of  art  —  poems,  paintings,  statues,  symphonies 
—  are  themselves  prized  and  sought  after.  They  afford  sat- 
isfaction to  that  large  number  of  persons  who  are  sensitive  to 
the  beautiful  without  having  a  gift  for  its  creation. 

Esthetic  appreciation  is  indeed  shared  by  all  men,  'and  is 
called  out  by  other  objects  than  paintings  or  poems.  There  is 
hardly  anything  men  do  which  is  not  affected  by  what  has 
been  called  "  an  irrelevant  access  of  aesthetic  feeling."  We  saw 
in  another  connection  how  our  estimates  of  persons  and  situa- 
tions are  qualified  by  love  and  hate,  sympathy  and  revulsion. 
In  the  same  way  all  our  experiences  have  an  aesthetic  coloring. 

1  Many  industrial  processes  exhibit  elements  of  the  fine  arts.  This  is  the 
case  whenever  there  is  opportunity  for'the  worker  to  feel,  and  to  have  some 
ground  for  the  feeling,  tfiat  he  is  not  merely  turning  out  a  product,  but  turn- 
ing out  a  well-made  or  a  beautiful  one,  to  which  his  own  skill  is  contributing. 
The  makers  of  fine  books  or  bindings  or  furniture,  of  fine  embroidery  and  the 
like,  are  examples.  But  such  conditions  occur  chiefly  in  the  so-called  luxury 
trades.  There  is  very  little  opportunity  for  the  display  of  creative  talent  in 
quantity  manufacture. 

On  the  other  hand,  every  fine  art  involves  some  elements  of  merely  tech- 
nical skill  or  craftsmanship,  which  is  important  in  achieving  an  imaginative 
result,  but  is  the  skill  of  the  mechanic  rather  than  the  vision  of  the  artist. 
In  surveying  the  finished  product  of  art  as  it  appears  in  a  painting  by  a 
Turner  or  a  Cezanne,  we  may  forget  the  "dust  and  ointment  of  the  calling," 
but  it  is  none  the  less  there.  The  drudgery  of  art,  the  practicing  of  scales, 
the  mixing  of  colors,  the  rehearsing  of  plays,  are,  as  it  were,  the  necessary 
preliminary  industry  in  art. 


342  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

It  may  be  nothing  more  than  the  curious  jubilance  and 
vivacity,  the  thrill  and  tingle  of  the  blood  that  comes  upon  a 
crisp  autumn  day.  It  may  be,  as  Mill  pointed  out,  the  large- 
ness of  thought  and  vision  promoted  by  habitually  working 
in  a  spacious  and  dignified  room.  ^Esthetic  influences  are 
always  playing  upon  us;  they  determine  not  only  our  tastes  in 
the  decoration  of  our  houses,  our  choices  of  places  to  walk  and 
to  eat,  but  even  such  seemingly  remote  and  abstract  matters 
as  a  scientific  theory  or  a  philosophy  of  life.  Even  the  indus- 
trial ideal  of  efficiency  has,  "with  its  suggestion  of  Dutch 
neatness  and  cleanliness,"  order  and  symmetry,  an  aesthetic 
flavor.  Similarly  is  there  an  appeal  to  our  aesthetic  sensibili- 
ties in  the  grouping  of  a  wide  variety  of  facts  under  sweeping 
inclusive  and  simple  generalizations.  There  is,  as  has  often 
been  pointed  out,  scarcely  anything  to  choose  from  as  regards 
the  relative  plausibility  of  the  Copernican  over  the  Ptolemaic 
system.  The  former  we  choose  largely  because  of  its  greater 
symmetry  and  simplicity  in  accounting  for  the  facts.  Even  a 
world  view  may  be  chosen  on  account  of  its  artistic  appeal. 
One  feels  moved  imaginatively,  even  if  one  disagrees  with  the 
logic  of  those  philosophies  which  see  reality  as  one  luminously 
transparent  conscious  whole,  in  which  every  experience  is 
delicately  reticulated  with  every  other,  where  discord  and 
division  are  obliterated,  and  the  multiple  variety  of  mundane 
facts  are  gathered  up  into  the  symmetrical  unity  of  the  eter- 
nal. 

Appreciation  versus  action.  Every  human  experience  has 
thus  its  particular  and  curious  aesthetic  flavor,  as  an  inevitable 
though  undetected  obligate.  ^Esthetic  values  enter  into  and 
qualify  our  estimates  of  persons  and  situations,  and  help  to 
determine  that  general  sympathy  or  revulsion,  that  love  or 
hate  for  people,  institutions,  or  ideas,  which  make  the  per- 
vasive atmosphere  of  all  human  action.  But  in  the  world  of 
action,  we  cannot  emphasize  these  irrelevant  aesthetic  feelings. 
The  appreciative  and  the  practical  moods  are  sharply  con- 
trasted. In  the  latter  we  are  interested  hi  results,  and  insist 


ART  AND  THE  AESTHETIC  EXPERIENCE    343 

on  the  exclusion  of  all  considerations  that  do  not  bear  on 
their  accomplishment.  The  appreciative  or  esthetic  mood  is 
detached;  it  is  interested  not  to  act,  but  to  pause  and  consider; 
it  does  not  want  to  use  the  present  as  a  point  of  departure. 
It  wants  to  bask  in  the  present  perfection  of  color,  word,  or 
sound.  The  practical  man  is  interested  in  a  present  situation 
for  what  can  be  done  with  it;  he  wants  to  know,  in  the  ver- 
nacular, "  What  comes  next?  "  "  Where  do  we  go  from  here?  " 
The  appreciator  wishes  to  remain  in  the  lovely  interlude  of 
perfection  which  he  experiences  in  music,  poetry,  or  painting. 
The  aesthetic  mood  is  obviously  at  a  discount  in  the  world 
of  action.  To  bask  in  the  charm  of  a  present  situation,  to 
linger  and  loiter,  as  it  were,  in  the  sun  of  beauty,  is  to  accom- 
plish nothing,  to  interrupt  action.  It  is  precisely  for  this 
reason  that  persons  with  extremely  high  aesthetic  sensibilities 
are  at  such  a  discount  in  practical  life.  They  are  too  easily 
dissolved  in  appreciation.  They  are  too  much  absorbed,  for 
practical  efficiency,  in  the  tragic,  the  whimsical,  the  beautiful, 
or  the  comic  aspects  of  men  and  affairs.  The  same  sensi- 
tivity to  the  innuendoes  and  colors  of  life  that  enable  some  of 
such  men  to  give  an  exquisite  and  various  portraiture  of  ex- 
perience, incapacitates  them  for  action.  The  practical  man 
must  not  observe  anything  irrelevant  to  his  immediate  busi- 
ness. He  must  not  be  dissolved,  at  every  random  provoca- 
tion, into  ecstacy,  laughter,  or  sorrow.  There  is  too  much  to 
be  done  in  business,  government,  mechanics,  and  the  labora- 
tory, to  allow  one's  attention  to  wander  dreamingly  over  the 
tragic,  the  beautiful,  the  pathetic,  the  comic,  and  the  gro- 
tesque qualities  of  the  day's  work.  To  take  an  extreme  case, 
it  would,  as  Jane  Harrison  observes,  be  a  monstrosity,  when 
our  friend  was  drowning,  to  note  with  lingering  appreciation 
the  fluent  white  curve  of  his  arm  in  the  glimmering  waters  of 
the  late  afternoon.  The  man  to  whom  every  event  is  flooded 
with  imaginative  possibilities  and  emotional  suggestions  is  a 
,/useless  or  a  dangerous  character  in  situations  where  it  ia. 
essential  to  discriminate  the  immediate  and  important  bear- 


344  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

ings  of  facts.  We  cannot  select  an  expert  accountant  on  tha 
basis  of  a  pleasant  smile,  nor  a  chauffeur  for  his  sense  of 
humor. 

But  while,  in  the  larger  part  of  the  lives  of  most  men,  ob- 
servation of  facts  is  controlled  with  reference  to  their  practical 
bearings,  observation  may  sometimes  take  place  for  its  own 
sake.  The  glory  of  a  sunset  is  not  commonly  prized  for  any 
good  that  may  come  of  it;  nobody  but  a  general  on  a  cam- 
paign or  a  fire  warden  looks  out  from  a  mountain  peak  upon 
the  valley  below  for  reasons  other  than  the  pleasure  of  the 
beholding.  In  the  case  of  persons,  also,  we  are  not  always 
interested  in  them  for  their  uses;  we  are  sometimes  delighted 
with  them  hi  themselves.  We  pause  to  watch  merry  or 
quaint  children,  experts  at  tennis,  beautiful  faces,  for  their 
own  sakes. 

While  even  in  nature  and  hi  social  experience,  we  thus  some- 
times note  specifically  aesthetic  values,  the  objects  of  fine  art 
have  no  other  justification  than  the  immediate  satisfactions 
they  produce  hi  their  beholder.  Those  intrinsic  pleasures 
which  go  by  the  general  name  of  beauty  are  various  and  com- 
plicated. Our  joy  may  be  in  the  sheer  delight  of  the  senses, 
as  in  the' hearing  of  a  singularly  lucid  and  sustained  note  of  a 
clarinet,  a  flute,  a  voice,  or  a  violin.  It  may  be  in  the  appre- 
ciation of  form,  as  hi  the  case  of  the  symmetry  of  a  temple,  an 
arch,  or  an  altar.  It  may  be  in  the  simultaneous  stirring  of 
the  senses,  the  imagination,  and  the  intellect,  by  the  presenta- 
tion of  an  idea  suffused  with  music  and  emotion,  as  in  the  case 
of  an  ode  by  Wordsworth  or  a  sonnet  by  Milton. 

In  all  these  instances  we  are  not  interested  hi  anything  be- 
yond the  experience  itself.  The  objects  of  the  fine  arts  are 
not  drafts  on  the  future,  anticipations  of  future  satisfactions 
eventually  to  be  cashed  in.  They  are  immediate  and  intrinsic 
goods,  absolute  fulfillments.  They  are  not  signals  to  action; 
they  are  releases  from  it.  A  painting,  a  poem,  a  symphony, 
do  not  precipitate  movement  or  change.  They  invite  a  restful 
absorption.  It  was  this  that  made  Schopenhauer  regard  art 


ART  AND  THE  AESTHETIC  EXPERIENCE    345 

68  a  rest  from  reality.  During  these  interludes,  at  least,  we 
live  amid  perfections,  and  are  content  there  to  move  and  have 
our  being. 

Sense  satisfaction.  Appreciation  of  the  arts  begins  in  the 
senses.  Sight  and  sound,  these  are  unquestionably  the  chief 
avenues  by  which  the  imagination  is  stirred.1 

In  the  words  of  Santayana: 

For  if  nothing  not  once  in  sense  is  to  be  found  in  the  intellect, 
much  less  is  such  a  thing  to  be  found  in  the  imagination.  If  the 
cedars  of  Lebanon  did  not  spread  a  grateful  shade,  or  the  winds 
rustle  through  the  maze  of  their  branches,  if  Lebanon  had  never 
been  beautiful  to  sense,  it  would  not  now  be  a  fit  or  poetic  subject  of 
allusion.  . . .  Nor  would  Samarcand  be  anything  but  for  the  mystery 
of  the  desert,  and  the  picturesqueness  of  caravans,  nor  would  an 
argosy  be  poetic  if  the  sea  had  no  voices  and  no  foam,  the  winds  and 
oars  no  resistance,  and  the  rudder  and  taut  sheets  no  pull.  From 
these  real  sensations  imagination  draws  its  hie,  and  suggestion  its 
power.* 

Satisfaction  in  sounds  arises  from  the  regular  intervals  of 
the  vibrations  of  the  air  by  which  it  is  produced.  The  rapidity 
of  these  regular  beats  determines  the  pitch.  But  sounds  also 
differ  in  timbre  or  quality,  depending  on  the  number  of  over- 
tones which  occur  in  different  modes  of  production.  This  ex- 
plains why  a  note  on  the  scale  played  on  the  piano,  differs 
from  the  same  note  played  on  the  'cello  or  the  organ.  From 
these  fundamental  sensuous  elements  of  sound,  elaborate 
symphonic  compositions  may  be  built  up,  but  they  remain 
primary  nevertheless.  Unless  the  sensuous  elements  of  sound 
were  themselvespleasing  it  is  difficult  to  imagine  that  a  musical 
composition  could  be.  Music  would  then  be  like  an  orchestra 
whose  members  played  in  unison,  but  whose  violins  were 
raucous  and  whose  trumpets  hoarse. 

Color  again  illustrates  the  aesthetic  satisfactions  that  are 
found  hi  certain  kinds  of  sense  stimulation,  apart  from  the 

1  The  so-called  lower  senses  are  not  regarded  as  yielding  aesthetic  values. 
Smell,  taste,  and  touch  are  not  generally,  certainly  in  Occidental  art,  made 
much  of. 

1  Santayana:  Sense  of  Beauty,  p.  68. 


846  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

form  they  are  given  or  the  emotions  or  ideas  they  express. 
The  elements  of  color,  as  color,  may  be  reduced  to  three  simple 
elements:  First  may  be  noted  hue,  as  yellow  or  blue;  second, 
value  (or  notari)  dark  or  light  red;  and  third  intensity  (or 
brightness  to  grayness),  as  vivid  blue  or  dull  blue.  Specific 
vivid  aesthetic  combinations  and  variations  are  made  possible 
by  variations  or  combinations  of  these  three  elements  of 
color.  If  a  color  scheme  is  displeasing,  the  fault  may  be  in  the 
wrong  selection  of  hues,  in  weak  values,  in  ill-matched  inten- 
sities or  all  three. 

Dutch  tiles,  Japanese  prints  and  blue  towels,  Abruzzi  towels, 
American  blue  quilts,  etc.,  are  examples  of  harmony  built  up  with 
several  values  of  one  hue. 

With  two  hues  innumerable  variations  are  possible.  Japanese 
prints  of  the  "red  and  green"  period  are  compositions  in  light 
yellow-red,  middle  green,  black,  and  white.  .  .  . 

Color  varies  not  only  in  hue  and  value  [notan]  but  in  intensity  — 
ranging  from  bright  to  gray.  Every  painter  knows  that  a  brilliant 
bit  of  color,  set  in  grayer  tones  of  the  same  or  neighboring  hues,  will 
illuminate  the  whole  group  —  a  distinguished  and  elusive  harmony. 
The  fire  opal  has  a  single  point  of  intense  scarlet,  melting  into  pearl; 
the  clear  evening  sky  is  like  this  when  from  the  sunken  sun  the  red- 
orange  light  grades  away  through  yellow  and  green  to  steel  gray.1 

These  variations  hi  hue,  value,  and  intensity  of  color  afford 
specific  aesthetic  satisfactions.  The  blueness  of  the  sky  is  its 
specific  beauty;  the  greenness  of  foliage  in  springtime  is  its 
characteristic  and  quite  essential  charm.  Apart  from  any- 
thing else,  sensations  themselves  afford  satisfaction  or  the 
reverse.  A  loud  color,  a  strident  or  a  shrill  sound  may  cause 
a  genuine  revulsion  of  feeling.  A  soft  hue  or  a  pellucid  note 
may  be  an  intrinsic  pleasure,  though  a  formless  one,  and  one 
expressive  of  no  meaning  at  all. 

Form.  While  the  imagination  is  stirred  most  directly  by 
the  immediate  material  beauty,  by  the  satisfaction  of  the 
senses,  beauty  of  form  is  an  important  element  in  the  en- 
hancement of  appreciation.  In  the  plastic  arts  and  in  music, 

1  Dow:  Composition,  p.  109. 


ART  AND  THE  AESTHETIC  EXPERIENCE    847 

it  is,  next  to  the  immediate  appeal  of  the  sensuous  elements 
involved,  the  chief  ingredient  in  the  effects  produced.  And 
even  in  those  arts  which  are  notable  for  their  expressive  val- 
ues, poetry,  fiction,  drama  and  painting,  the  appeal  of  form,  as 
in  the  plot  of  a  drama,  or  the  structure  of  an  ode  or  a  sonnet 
is  still  very  high.  Certain  dispositions  of  line  and  color  in 
painting;  of  harmony  and  counterpoint  in  music;  rhythm, 
refrain,  and  recurrence  in  poetry;  symmetry  and  balance  in 
sculpture;  all  have  their  specific  appeal,  apart  from  the  mate- 
rials used  or  the  emotions  or  ideas  expressed.  Certain  har- 
monic relations  are  interesting  in  music  apart  from  the  par- 
ticular range  of  notes  employed,  or  the  particular  melody  upon 
which  variations  are  made.  The  pattern  of  a  tapestry  may 
be  interesting,  apart  from  the  color  combinations  involved. 
The  structure  of  a  ballade  or  a  sonnet  may  be  beautiful,  apart 
from  the  melody  of  the  words  or  the  persuasiveness  of  the 
emotion  or  idea.  Out  of  the  factors  which  enter  into  the 
appreciation  of  form  certain  elements  stand  out. 

There  is,  in  the  first  place,  symmetry,  the  charm  of  which 
lies  partly  in  recognition  and  rhythm.  "  When  the  eye  runs 
over  a  facade,  and  finds  the  objects  that  attract  it  at  equal 
intervals,  an  expectation,  like  the  anticipation  of  an  inevi- 
table note  or  requisite  word,  arises  in  the  mind,  and  its  non- 
satisfaction  involves  a  shock." * 

Similarly,  form  given  to  material  brings  a  variety  of  details 
under  a  comprehensive  unity,  enabling  us  to  have  at  once  the 
stimulation  of  diversity  and  the  clarification  of  a  guiding 
principle.  We  cherish  sensations  in  themselves,  when  they 
consist  of  elements  like  limpidness  of  color  and  lucidity  of 
sound.  But  too  much  miscellany  of  sensation  is  disquieting; 
it  has  an  effect  analogous  to  noise.  A  baby  or  a  barbarian 
may  delight  in  loud  heterogeneity  and  vivid  confusion,  but 
extravagance  of  sensation  does  not  constitute  an  aesthetic 
experience. 

The  discovery  of  the  one  in  the  many,  the  immediate  appre- 

1  Santayana:  The  Sense  of  Beauty,  p.  02. 


348  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

hension  of  the  fluent  tracing  of  a  pattern,  a  form,  or  a  struc- 
ture, is  intrinsically  delightful.  The  pattern  of  a  tapestry 
design  is  as  striking  and  suggestive  as  the  colors  themselves. 
When  musical  taste  has  passed  from  a  sentimental  intoxica- 
tion with  the  sensuous  beauty  of  the  sounds  themselves,  the 
beauty  we  admire  is  primarily  beauty  of  form  or  structure. 
The  musical  connoisseur  likes  to  trace  the  recurrence  of  a 
theme  in  a  symphony,  its  deviations  and  disappearances,  its 
distribution  in  the  various  choirs  of  wood-wind,  brass,  and 
strings,  its  interweaving  with  other  themes,  its  resilient,  sur- 
prising, and  apposite  emergences,  its  pervasive  penetration  of 
the  total  scheme. 

The  aesthetic  experience,  indeed,  as  specifically  aesthetic, 
rather  than  merely  sensuous  or  intellectual,  is,  it  might  be 
said,  almost  wholly  a  matter  of  form.  It  is  the  artist's  func- 
tion, as  it  is  occasionally  his  achievement,  to  give  satisfying, 
determinate  forms  to  the  indeterminate  and  miscellaneous 
materials  at  his  command.  Formlessness  is  for  the  creator  of 
beauty  the  unpardonable  sin.  To  give  clarity  and  coherence 
to  the  vague  ambiguous  scintillations  of  sound,  to  chisel  a 
specific  perfection  out  of  the  indefinite  inviting  possibilities 
of  marble,  to  form  precise  and  consecutive  suggestions  out  of 
the  random  and  uncertain  music  of  words,  is  to  achieve,  in  so 
far,  success  in  art.  Nor  does  form  mean  formality.  Experi- 
ence is  so  various  and  fertile,  and  so  far  outruns  the  types  un- 
der which  human  invention  and  imagination  can  apprehend 
it,  that  inexhaustible  novelty  is  possible.  Novelty,  on  the 
other  hand,  does  not  mean  formlessness.  The  artist  must,  if 
he  is  to  be  successful,  always  remain  something  of  an  artisan. 
However  beautiful  his  vision,  he  must  have  sufficient  com- 
mand of  the  technical  resources  to  his  craft  to  give  a  specific 
and  determinate  embodiment  to  his  ideal. 

Every  one  has  haunting  premonitions  of  beauty;  it  is  the 
business  of  the  artist  to  give  realization  in  form  to  the  hints  of 
the  beautiful  which  are  present  in  matter  as  we  meet  it  in  ex- 
perience, and  to  the  imaginative  longings  which  they  provoke. 


ART  AND  THE  ESTHETIC  EXPERIENCE    349 

In  which  forms  different  individuals  will  find  satisfaction 
depends  on  all  the  circumstances  which  go  to  make  one  indi- 
vidual different  from  another.  There  cannot  be  in  the  case  of 
art,  any  more  than  in  any  other  experience,  absolute  stand- 
ards. We  can  be  pleased  only  with  those  arrangements  of  sound 
or  color  to  which  our  sensibilities  have  early  been  educated. 
Even  the  most  catholic  of  tastes  becomes  restricted  in  the 
course  of  education.  To  Western  ears,  there  is  at  first  no 
music  at  all  in  Chinese  music,  and  Beethoven  would  appear  to 
the  Chinese  as  barbarous  as  their  compositions  appear  to  us. 

But  while  in  a  wide  sense,  conformity  to  the  average  deter- 
mines or  limits  our  possible  appreciation  of  the  beautiful, 
within  these  limits  certain  elements  are  intrinsically  more 
pleasing  than  others.  Those  elements  of  experience,  in  the 
first  place,  more  readily  acquire  aesthetic  values,  which  in 
themselves  strikingly  impress  the  senses.  Thus  tallness  in  a 
man,  because  it  is  in  the  first  place  striking,  becomes  readily 
incorporated  into  our  standard  of  the  beautiful.  And  all  ele- 
ments in  themselves  beautiful,  the  human  eye,  the  curve  of 
the  arm,  the  wave  of  the  hair,  come  to  be  emphasized.  These 
outstanding  elements  may  themselves  become  convention- 
alized and  standardized,  so  that  objects  of  art  which  conform 
to  them  are  insured  thereby  of  a  certain  degree  of  recognition 
as  beautiful.  Too  close  a  conformity  produces  monotonous 
formalities,  cloying  classicisms.  Too  wide  a  divergence  re- 
sults in  shock  and  unpleasantness.  The  history  of  all  the  arts, 
however,  is  full  of  instances  of  how  the  taste  of  a  people  can  be 
educated  to  new  forms.  Ruskin  had  to  educate  the  English 
people  to  an  appreciation  of  Turner.  The  poets  of  the  Ro- 
mantic period  were  condemned  by  the  critics  brought  up  on 
the  rigid  classic  models.  The  so-called  Romantic  movements 
in  the  arts  are,  at  their  best,  departures  from  old  forms,  not 
into  formlessness,  but  into  new,  various,  and  more  fruitful 
forms.  Romanticism  at  its  worst  dissolves  into  mere  form- 
lessness and  inarticulate  ecstacies.  Infinite  variety  of  forms 
the  world  of  experience  may  be  made  to  wear,  but  sensations, 


850  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

emotions,  and  ideas  must  be  given  some  form,  if  they  are  to 
pass  from  a  fruitless  yearning  after  beauty  into  its  positive 
incarnation  in  objects  of  art. 

All  forms  have  their  characteristic  emotional  effects,  as  have 
all  materials,  even  apart  from  the  emotions  or  ideas  they  ex- 
press. The  glitter  of  gold  and  the  sparkle  of  diamonds,  the 
strength  of  marble,  the  sturdiness  of  oak  —  we  hardly  can 
think  of  these  materials  without  thinking  of  the  associations 
which  go  with  them.  Similarly  the  symmetry  of  the  colon- 
nades of  a  temple,  the  multiplicity  and  variety  of  Gothic 
architecture,  even  so  simple  a  form  as  a  circle,  provoke  a 
great  or  slight  characteristic  emotional  reaction.  Likewise, 
a  staccato  or  a  fluent  rhythm  in  music,  a  march,  or  a  dance 
movement,  have,  even  apart  from  their  unconscious  or  in- 
tentional expressiveness,  specific  emotional  values.  In  lit- 
erature, also,  where  the  value  of  the  words  themselves  might 
be  expected  to  give  place  entirely  to  the  emotions  or  ideas  of 
which  they  are  the  expressive  instruments,  poems  may  them- 
selves, by  their  form  and  music,  be  provocative  of  specific 
emotional  effects. 

"...  And  over  them  the  sea  wind  sang, 
Shrill,  chill,  with  flakes  of  foam.    He,  stepping  down 
By  zigzag  paths  and  juts  of  pointed  rock, 
Came  on  the  shining  levels  of  the  lake. 

Dry  clashed  his  harness  in  the  icy  caves, 

And  barren  chasms,  and  all  to  left  and  right, 

The  bare  black  cliff  clanged  round  him,  as  he  based 

His  feet  on  juts  of  slippery  crag  that  rang, 

Sharp-smitten  with  the  dint  of  armed  heels  — 

And  on  a  sudden,  lo!  the  level  lake, 

And  the  long  glories  of  the  winter  moon."  l 

Here  the  effect  lies  partly  in  the  form,  but  more  especially  in 
the  timbre  and  reverberation  of  the  words  themselves.  In 
other  cases,  it  is  the  form  that  is  the  chief  ingredient  hi  the 
effect  produced.  In  Alfred  Noyes's  "  The  Barrel  Organ," 
apart  from  the  meaning,  it  is  the  rhythmic  form  that  is  of  chief 
aesthetic  value: 

1  Fix>m  Tennyson's  Marie  <T  Arthur. 


ART  AND  THE  ESTHETIC  EXPERIENCE    851 

"Come  down  to  Kew  in  lilac  time,  in  lilac  time,  in  lilac  time, 
Come  down  to  Kew  in  lilac  time,  it  is  n't  far  from  London, 
And  you  shall  wander  hand-in-hand  with  love  in  summer's  wonderland. 
Come  down  to  Kew  in  lilac  time;  it  is  n't  far  from  London. 

"The  cherry  trees  are  seas  of  bloom  and  soft  perfume  and  sweet  perfume. 
The  cherry  trees  are  seas  of  bloom  (and  oh,  so  near  to  London!) 
And  there  they  say,  when  dawn  is  high,  and  all  the  world 's  a  blaze  of  sky, 
The  cuckoo,  though  he's  very  shy,  will  sing  a  song  for  London." 

Apart  from  all  considerations  of  meaning,  set  the  easy  fluent 
grace  of  this  lyric  over  against  the  march  and  majesty  of  the 
"Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic." 

•'Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of  the  Lord; 

He  is  trampling  out  the  vintage  where  the  grapes  of  wrath  are  stored; 

He  hath  loosed  the  fateful  lightning  of  His  terrible  swift  sword; 

His  truth  is  ma.rp.hing  on. 

**He  has  sounded  forth  the  trumpet  that  shall  never  call  retreat; 
He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  before  His  judgment-seat; 
Oh,  be  swift,  my  soul,  to  answer  Him!  be  jubilant,  my  feetl 
Our  God  is  marching  on." 

Expression.  The  objects  of  art,  as  we  have  seen,  are  in- 
teresting and  attractive  in  themselves,  for  the  material  of 
which  they  are  formed,  and  for  the  form  which  the  artist  has 
given  them.  But  they  are  interesting  in  another  and  possibly 
as  important  a  way:  they  are  instruments  of  expression. 
That  is,  a  painting  is  something  more  than  an  intrinsically 
interesting  disposition  of  line  and  color,  a  statue  something 
more  than  an  exquisite  or  sublime  chiseling  of  marble,  a  poem 
more  than  a  rhythmic  combination  of  the  music  of  words. 
All  of  these  are  expressive.  Something  in  their  form  is 
associated  with  something  in  our  past  experience.  Thus,  as 
James  somewhere  suggests,  "a  bare  figure  by  Michelangelo, 
with  unduly  flexed  joints,  may  come  somehow  to  suggest  the 
moral  tragedy  of  life."  Something  in  the  face  of  an  old  man 
painted  by  Rembrandt  may  recall  to  us  a  similar  outward 
evidence  of  inner  seriousness,  wistfulness,  and  resignation 
which  we  have  ourselves  beheld  in  living  people.  And  we 
clearly  value  the  poems  of  a  Wordsworth,  a  Milton,  a  Mat- 


352  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

thew  Arnold,  not  solely  for  the  magnificent  form  and  music 
of  their  words,  but  also  for  the  sober  beauty  of  their  meaning. 
We  may  come  to  appreciate  even  the  highly  immediate 
sensuous  and  formal  pleasure  of  music  for  the  reverie  or  rap- 
ture into  which  by  suggestion  it  throws  us.  "  Expression  may, 
therefore,  make  beautiful  by  suggestion,  things  in  themselves 
indifferent,  or  it  may  come  to  heighten  the  beauty  which  they 
already  possess." 

The  objects  of  art  may  be  appreciated  chiefly  either  for 
their  material  and  form,  or  for  the  values  which  they  express. 
In  some  cases  the  actual  object  may  be  beautiful;  sometimes 
the  beauty  may  lie  almost  wholly  in  the  image,  emotion,  or 
idea  evoked.  "  Home,  Sweet  Home,"  for  example,  may  be 
plausibly  held  to  win  admiration  rather  for  the  sentimental 
associations  which  it  evokes  in  the  singer  or  hearer  than  for  its 
verbal  or  melodic  beauty.  The  enjoyment  which  people  with- 
out any  musical  gifts,  out  on  a  camping  or  canoeing  trip, 
experience  from  singing  a  rather  cheap  and  frayed  repertory 
is  obviously  for  sentimental  rather  than  for  aesthetic  satis- 
faction. Similarly,  we  may  cherish  the  mementos  of  a  lost 
friend  or  child,  not  for  their  intrinsic  worth,  but  for  the  ten- 
derness of  the  memories  they  arouse.  The  situation  is 
delicately  described  in  Eugene  Field's  "Little  Boy  Blue": 

"The  little  toy  dog  is  covered  with  dust, 

But  sturdy  and  staunch  he  stands, 
And  the  little  toy  soldier  is  red  with  rust, 

And  his  musket  moulds  in  his  hands. 
Time  was  when  the  little  toy  dog  was  new, 

And  the  soldier  was  passing  fair, 
And  that  was  the  time  when  our  Little  Boy  Blue 

Kissed  them  and  put  them  there." 

Some  objects  of  art  may  indeed  become  beautiful  almost 
completely  through  their  expressiveness.  There  are  certain 
poets  whose  music  is  raucous  and  who  make  little  appeal 
through  clarity  of  form.  These  survive  almost  completely  by 
virtue  of  the  persistent  strength  and  enduring  sublimity  of  the; 
ideas  which  they  express.  Much  of  Whitman  may  be  put  in 


ART  AND  THE  AESTHETIC  EXPERIENCE    353 

this  class,  and  also  much  of  Browning.  Similarly  a  sculptor 
may  not  captivate  us  by  the  fluent  beauty  of  his  marble,  but 
by  the  power  and  passion  which  his  crude  mighty  figures  ex- 
press. In  such  cases  we  may  even  come  to  regard  what,  from 
a  purely  formal  point  of  view,  is  unlovely,  as  a  thing  of  the 
most  extreme  beauty.  Even  the  roughness  in  such  direct 
revelations  of  strength,  may  come  to  be  regarded  as  elements 
of  the  beautiful.  And  where  massiveness  of  effect  does  not 
suffice  to  retrieve  a  work  of  art  from  its  essential  crudities,  we 
may  still  come  to  accept  it  as  beautiful,  as  it  were,  in  inten- 
tion, and  for  what  comes  to  be  regarded  as  its  essence,  namely, 
the  idea  or  emotion  it  expresses.  We  forgive  the  imperfec- 
tions of  form  as  we  forgive  the  stammerings  and  stutterings  of 
persons  whose  broken  sayings  are  yet  full  of  wisdom. 

Usually  even  where  the  object,  emotion,  or  idea  expressed  is 
beautiful,  we  demand  certain  formal  and  material  elements  of 
beauty.  A  telegram  may  convey  the  very  apex  of  felicity, 
yet  be  not  at  all  felicitous  in  its  form  or  in  the  music  of  its 
words.  If  in  such  cases,  we  speak  of  beauty,  the  term  is 
altogether  metaphorical  and  imputed;  we  are  using  it  in  the 
same  analogical  sense  as  when  we  speak  or  a  "  beautiful  opera- 
tion" or  a  "beautiful  deed";  it  is  a  moral  rather  than  an 
aesthetic  term.  We  may  find  the  letter  of  a  friend  expressive  of 
the  gentleness,  fidelity,  and  charm  that  have  endeared  him  to 
us,  but  unless  these  have  attained  sufficiently  clear  and  ex- 
plicit form  and  determinate  unmistakable  music,  the  letter  will 
have  a  meaningful  beauty  only  in  the  light  of  the  peculiar  re- 
lation existing  between  us  and  the  writer.  From  an  impar- 
tial aesthetic  point  of  view,  the  epistle  can  only  by  affec- 
tionate exaggeration  be  called  beautiful. 

But  the  arts,  through  their  beauty  of  form,  may  present 
pleasingly  objects,  emotions,  ideas,  not  in  themselves  beauti- 
ful or  pleasing.  The  clearest  case  of  this  kind  is  tragedy, 
where  we  may  enjoy  at  arm's  length  and  through  the  medium 
of  art,  experiences  which  would  in  the  near  actualities  of  lif  e  be 
only  unmitigated  horror.  Refracted  through  the  medium  of 


854  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

poetry  and  drama,  they  may  appear  beautiful  pervasively 
and  long. 

We  are  enabled  through  the  arts  to  survey  sympathetically 
universal  emotions,  those  by  which  our  own  lives  have  been 
touched,  or  to  which  they  are  liable;  we  are  enabled  to  survey 
bitterness  and  frustration  calmly  because  they  are  set  in  a  per- 
spective, a  beautiful  perspective,  in  which  they  shine  out  clear 
and  persuasive,  purified  of  that  bitter  personal  tang  which 
makes  sorrow  in  real  life  so  different  in  tone  from  the  beauty 
with  which  in  tragedy  it  is  halved.  Any  sensation,  as  Max 
Eastman  justly  remarks  in  his  "  Enjoyment  of  Poetry,"  may, 
if  sufficiently  mild,  become  pleasing.  And  there  is  hardly  any 
human  action  or  experience,  however  terrible,  which  cannot 
in  the  hands  of  a  master  be  made  appealing  and  sublime  in  its 
emotional  effect. 

The  beauty  of  Tragedy  does  but  make  visible  a  quality  which, 
in  more  or  less  obvious  shapes,  is  present  always  and  everywhere  in 
life.  In  the  spectacle  of  death,  in  the  endurance  of  intolerable  pain, 
and  in  the  irrevocableness  of  a  vanished  past,  there  is  a  sacredness, 
an  overpowering  awe,  a  feeling  of  the  vastness,  the  depth,  the  inex- 
haustible mystery  of  existence,  in  which,  as  by  some  strange  marriage 
of  pain,  the  sufferer  is  bound  to  the  world  by  bonds  of  sorrow.  In 
these  moments  of  insight  we  lose  all  eagerness  of  temporary  desire, 
all  struggling  and  striving  for  petty  ends,  all  care  for  the  little  trivial 
things  that,  to  a  superficial  view,  make  up  the  common  life  of  day 
by  day;  we  see,  surrounding  the  narrow  raft,  illumined  by  the  flick- 
ering light  of  human  comradeship,  the  dark  ocean  on  whose  rolling 
waves  we  toss  for  a  brief  hour.1 

But  emotions  and  experiences  that  in  real  life  are  displeas- 
ing can  be  made  pleasing  in  art  chiefly  by  virtue  of  the  qual- 
ities of  material  and  form  already  discussed.  The  disappoint- 
ment, disillusion,  or  terror  which  tragedy  so  vividly  reveals  is 
made  tolerable  chiefly  through  the  intrinsic  beauty  of  the  ve- 
hicle in  which  it  is  set  forth.  The  high  and  breathless  beauty 
of  rhythm,  the  verve,  the  mystery,  and  music  with  which  evils 
are  set  forth,  may  make  them  not  only  tolerable  but  tender 

1  Bertrand  Russell:  Philosophical  Essays,  pp.  67-68. 


ART  AND  THE  AESTHETIC  EXPERIENCE    355 

and  appealing.  What  would  be  as  immediate  experience 
altogether  heartrending,  for  example  the  torturing  remorse  of 
a  Macbeth,  is  made  splendid  and  moving  in  the  incisive 
majesty  and  penetration  of  his  monologues.  At  the  end  of 
Hamlet,  the  utter  wreck,  unreason,  and  confusion  is  made 
bearable  and  beautiful  by  the  tender  finality  of  Hamlet's 
dying  words  to  Horatio: 

"Absent  thee  from  felicity  awhile 
And  in  this  harsh  world  draw  thy  breath  in  pain, 
To  tell  my  story." 

Greek  tragedy  had  the  additional  accouterments  of  a 
chorus,  of  music,  of  production  in  a  vast  amphitheater  to  give 
an  atmosphere  of  outward  grandeur  to  the  glory  of  its  intent. 
Tragedy  often  relieves  the  net  horror  which  is  its  burden  by 
the  pomp  and  circumstance  of  the  associations  it  suggests: 

We  have  palaces  for  our  scene,  rank,  beauty,  and  virtues  in  our 
heroes,  nobility  in  their  passions  and  in  their  fate,  and  altogether  a 
sort  of  glorification  of  life  without  which  tragedy  would  lose  both  in 
depth  of  pathos  —  since  things  so  precious  are  destroyed  —  and  in 
subtlety  of  chann,  since  things  so  precious  are  manifested.* 

Tragedy  still  more  subtly  attains  the  beauty  of  expressive- 
ness by  making  the  very  evils  and  confusions  and  terrors  it 
presents  'somehow  the  exemplifications  of  a  serene  eternal 
order.  The  function  of  the  chorus  in  Greek  tragedy  was  in- 
deed chiefly  to  indicate  in  solemn  strophe  and  antistrophe  the 
ordered  and  harmonious  verities  of  which  these  particular 
follies  and  frustrations  were  so  tender  and  terrible  an  illus- 
tration. They  catch  up  the  present  and  particular  evil  into 
the  calm  and  splendid  interplay  of  cosmic  forces.  Thus  at  the 
end  of  Euripides's  play  Medea,  when  the  heroine  has  slain 
the  children  she  has  borne  to  Jason  and  in  her  fury  refuses  to 
let  him  gather  up  their  dead  bodies,  when  Jason  in  utter 
inconsolable  despair,  casts  himself  upon  the  earth,  out  of  all 
this  wrack  and  torture  the  chorus  raises  the  audience  into  a 

1  Santayana:  Sense  of  Beauty,  p.  228. 


356  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

contemplation  of  the  ordered  eternity  by  which  these  things 
dome  to  be.    It  sings: 

"Great  treasure  halls  hath  Zeus  in  Heaven, 
From  whence  to  man  strange  dooms  be  given, 

Past  hope  or  fear; 

And  the  end  men  looked  for  cometh  not, 
And  a  path  is  there  where  no  man  thought: 

So  hath  it  fallen  here."  l 

Art  as  vicarious  experience.  The  drama,  art,  and  painting 
are,  in  general,  ways  by  which  we  can  vicariously  experience 
the  emotions  of  others.  All  of  the  expressive  arts  are  made 
possible  by  the  fundamental  psychological  fact  that  human 
beings  give  certain  instinctive  and  habitual  signs  of  emotion 
and  instinctively  respond  to  them.  In  consequence,  through 
art  experience  may  be  immeasurably  broadened,  deepened, 
and  mellowed.  Through  the  medium  of  art,  modes  of  life  long 
past  away  can  leave  their  imperishable  and  living  mementos. 
Dante  opens  to  the  citizen  of  the  twentieth  century  the  mind 
and  imagination  of  the  Middle  Ages.  A  Grecian  urn  can 
arouse,  at  least  to  a  Keats,  the  whole  stilled  magic  of  the 
Greek  spirit.  And  not  only  can  we  live  through  the  life  and 
emotion  of  tunes  long  dead,  but  the  fiction  and  drama  and 
poetry  of  our  own  day  permit  us  to  enter  into  realms  of  ex- 
perience which  hi  extent  and  variety  would  not  be  possible  to 
one  man.  Indeed,  the  possibility  of  vicariously  enlarging  ex- 
perience is  one  of  the  chief  appeals  of  art.  We  cannot  all  be 
rovers,  but  we  can  have  in  reading  Masefield  a  pungent  sense 
of  romantic  open  spaces,  the  salt  winds,  the  perilous  motion 
or  the  broad  calm  of  the  sea.  We  feel  something  of  the  same 
urgency  as  that  of  the  author  when  we  read: 

"I  must  go  down  to  the  seas  again,  the  lonely  sea  and  the  sky, 
And  all  I  ask  is  a  tall  ship  and  a  star  to  steer  her  by, 
And  the  wheel's  kick  and  the  wind's  song  and  the  white  sail's  shaking, 
And  a  gray  mist  on  the  sea's  face  and  a  gray  dawn  breaking."  J 

Art  opens  up  wide  avenues  of  possibility;  it  releases  us  from 
the  limitations  to  which  a  particular  mode  of  life,  an  acci- 

1  Euripides:  Medea  (Gilbert  Murray  translation).     *  Masefield:  Sea-Fever. 


ART  AND  THE  .ESTHETIC  EXPERIENCE    357 

dental  niche  in  a  business  or  profession  has  committed  us.  It 
enables  us  vividly  to  experience  and  sympathetically  to  ap- 
preciate the  lives  which  are  led  by  other  men,  and  in  which 
something  in  our  own  personalities  could  have  found  fulfill- 
ment. 

While  the  objects  of  art  thus  broaden  our  experience  by 
their  precise  and  contagious  communication  of  emotion,  they 
may  also  express  ideas.  Thus  a  play  may  have  a  message,  a 
poem  a  vision,  a  painting  an  allegory.  Art  is  both  at  an 
advantage  and  at  a  disadvantage  in  the  communication  of 
ideas.  Ideas,  if  they  are  to  be  accurately  conveyed,  should 
be  devoid  of  emotional  flourish,  and  presented  with  telegraphic 
directness  and  precision.  They  should  have  the  clarity  of 
formulas,  rather  than  the  distracting  array  and  atmosphere 
of  form.  But  ideas  presented  in  the  persuasive  garb  of 
beauty,  gain  in  their  hold  over  men  what  they  lose  in  pre- 
cision. Thus  an  eloquent  orator,  a  touching  letter,  a  vivid 
poem,  may  do  more  than  volumes  of  the  most  definitive  and 
convincing  logic  to  insinuate  an  idea  into  men's  minds.  Com- 
pare in  effectiveness  the  most  thoroughgoing  treatise  on  the 
status  of  the  agricultural  laborer  with  the  stirring  momentum 
of  Edwin  Markham's  " The  Man  With  the  Hoe": 

"  Bowed  by  the  weight  of  centuries  he  leans 
Upon  his  hoe  and  gazes  on  the  ground, 
The  emptiness  of  ages  in  his  face, 
And  on  his  back  the  burden  of  the  world. 
Who  made  him  dead  to  rapture  and  despair, 
A  thing  that  grieves  not,  and  that  never  hopes, 
Stolid  and  stunned,  a  brother  to  the  ox? 
Who  loosened  and  let  down  this  brutal  jaw? 
Whose  was  the  hand  that  slanted  back  this  brow? 
Whose  breath  blew  out  the  light  within  this  brain? 

"Is  this  the  Thing  the  Lord  God  made  and  gave 
To  have  dominion  over  sea  and  land; 
To  trace  the  stars  and  search  the  heavens  for  power, 
To  feel  the  passion  of  Eternity? 
Is  this  the  Dream  he  dreamed  who  shaped  the  suns, 
And  marked  their  ways  upon  the  ancient  deep? 
Down  all  the  stretch  of  Hell  to  its  last  gulf 


358  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

There  is  no  shape  more  terrible  than  this  — 
More  tongued  with  censure  of  the  world's  blind  greed  — 
More  filled  with  signs  and  portents  for  the  soul  — 
More  fraught  with  menace  to  the  universe." 

An  idea  clothed  with  such  music  and  passion  is  an  incom- 
parably effective  means  of  arousing  a  response.  It  is  this 
which  makes  art  so  valuable  an  instrument  of  propaganda. 
People  will  respond  actively  to  ideas  set  forth  with  fervor  by 
a  Tolstoy  or  an  Ibsen  who  would  be  left  cold  by  the  flat  and 
erudite  accuracy  of  a  volume  on  economics.  And  the  con- 
firmed Platonist  is  made  so  perhaps  less  by  the  convincingness 
of  Plato's  logic,  than  by  the  inevitable  and  irrefutable  grace 
of  his  dramatic  art. 

There  is,  for  certain  persons  educated  in  the  arts,  a  satis- 
faction that  is  neither  sensuous  nor  emotional,  but  intellec- 
tual. These  come  to  discriminate  form  with  the  abstract 
though  warm  interest  of  the  expert.  The  well-informed  con- 
cert-goer begins  to  appreciate  beauties  hidden  to  the  unini- 
tiate.  He  notes  with  eager  anticipation  the  technical  genius 
of  a  composition  as  it  unfolds,  admiring  the  craft  and  skill 
as  well  as  the  vision  of  the  artist.  In  extreme  cases  this  may, 
of  course,  degenerate  into  mere  pedantry.  But  at  its  best, 
it  is  the  satisfaction  of  the  man  who,  having  a  keen  eye  for 
beauty,  is  all  the  more  solicitous  for  its  accurate  realization. 
The  satisfactions  of  the  connoisseur  are  merely  a  refinement 
of  less  sophisticated  forms  of  appreciation.  To  appreciate 
the  bare  sounds  of  music,  or  the  vividness  of  color  in  a  paint- 
ing is  the  prelude  to  more  discriminating  tastes.  It  is  im- 
possible for  most  men  to  have  in  all  the  arts  expert  judgment, 
but  the  ability  to  be  able  to  discriminate  with  authority  the 
technical  achievements  of  a  work  of  genius,  while  it  does  not 
supplant  the  emotional  and  sense  satisfaction  derived  from 
the  arts,  nevertheless  enhances  them. 

Art  and  aesthetic  experience  in  the  social  order.  The 
creative  activity  which  is,  to  a  peculiar  extent,  the  artist's, 
is  sought  and  practiced  to  some  degree  by  all  men.  Genius 


ART  AND  THE  ESTHETIC  EXPERIENCE    359 

is  rare,  but  talent  of  a  minor  sort  is  frequent.  In  the  playing 
of  a  musical  instrument,  in  the  practice  of  a  handicraft,  in 
the  cultivation  of  a  garden,  ordinary  men  in  modern  society 
find  an  outlet  for  invention,  craftsmanship,  and  imagination. 
To  give  this  joy  of  creation,  in  smaller  or  larger  measure,  to 
all  men  is  to  promote  social  happiness.  In  the  discussion  of 
instinct  it  was  pointed  out  that  men  come  nearest  to  attaining 
happiness  when  they  are  doing  what  is  their  bent  by  original 
nature,  when  they  are  acting  out  of  sheer  love  of  the  activity 
rather  than  from  compulsion.  And  since  all  men  possess, 
although  in  moderate  degree,  the  creative  impulse,  to  give 
this  impulse  a  chance  is  a  distinct  social  good. 

The  employment  of  the  creative  imagination  demands  both 
leisure  and  training.  Leisure  is  needed  because,  in  the  routine 
activities  of  industry,  men's  actions  are  determined  not  by 
their  imagination,  but  by  the  immediacies  of  practical  de- 
mands. There  may  be,  as  Helen  Marot  suggests,  a  possibility 
of  a  wide  utilization  of  the  creative  impulse  in  industry.  But 
a  large  part  of  industrial  lif  e  must  of  necessity  remain  routine. 
In  consequence,  during  their  leisure  hours  alone,  can  men 
find  free  scope  for  some  form  of  aesthetic  interest  and  activity. 
The  second  requisite  is  training.  Even  the  poor  player  of  an 
instrument  can  derive  some  pleasure  from  his  performance. 
And,  under  the  accidents  of  economic  and  social  circumstance, 
many  a  flower  may  really  be  born  to  blush  unseen  through  the 
fact  that  its  talents  receive  no  opportunity.  The  occasional 
"discovery"  by  a  wealthy  man  of  a  genius  in  the  slums,  indi- 
cates how  a  more  liberal  and  general  provision  of  training  in 
the  arts  might  redound  to  the  general  good.  And  a  more 
widespread  endowment  of  training  in  the  fine  arts,  if  it  did 
not  produce  many  geniuses,  might  at  least  produce  a  number 
of  competent  painters  and  musicians,  who,  in  the  practice  of 
their  skill,  during  their  leisure,  would  derive  considerable  and 
altogether  wholesome  pleasure. 

While  high  aesthetic  capacity  may  be  lacking  in  most  people, 
aesthetic  appreciation  is  widely  diffused,  and  the  education  of 


360  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

taste  and  the  growth  in  appreciation  of  the  arts  have  been 
marked.  The  museums  of  art  in  our  large  cities  report  a 
constantly  increasing  attendance,  both  of  visitors  to  the  gal- 
leries and  attendants  at  lectures.  And  the  crowds  which 
regularly  attend  musical  programs  of  a  sustainedly  high  char- 
acter in  many  cities,  winter  and  summer,  are  evidence  of  how 
widespread  and  eager  is  appreciation  of  the  fine  arts.  In 
the  Scandinavian  countries  and  in  Germany  one  of  the  most 
remarkable  social  phenomena  has  been  the  growth  of  a 
widely  supported  people's  theater  movement,  in  which  there 
has  been  consistent  support  of  the  highest  type  of  operas  and 
plays. 

Art  as  an  industry.  The  fact  that  objects  of  art  are  them- 
selves immediate  satisfactions  and  supply  human  wants, 
makes  their  provision  for  large  numbers  an  important  social 
enterprise.  Certain  forms  of  art,  therefore,  become  highly 
industrialized.  The  provision  of  the  objects  of  art  becomes 
a  profitable  business,  as  it  is  also  made  possible  only  by  a  large 
economic  outlay.  Tolstoy  in  his  What  is  Art?  brings  out 
strikingly  the  economic  basis  of  artistic  enterprises  in  con- 
temporary society: 

For  the  support  of  art  in  Russia  [1898],  the  government  grants 
millions  of  roubles  in  subsidies  to  academies,  conservatories,  and 
theatres.  In  France,  twenty  million  francs  are  assigned  for  art,  and 
similar  grants  are  made  in  Germany  and  England. 

In  every  large  town  enormous  buildings  are  erected  for  museums, 
academies,  conservatories,  dramatic  schools,  and  for  performances 
and  concerts.  Hundreds  of  thousands  of  workmen  —  carpenters, 
masons,  painters,  joiners,  paperhangers,  tailors,  hairdressers,  jewel- 
ers, molders,  type-setters  —  spend  their  whole  lives  in  hard  labor  to 
satisfy  the  demands  of  art,  so  that  hardly  any  other  department  of 
human  activity,  except  the  military,  consumes  so  much  energy  as  this. 

Not  only  is  enormous  labor  spent  on  this  activity,  but  in  it,  as  in 
war,  the  very  lives  of  men  are  sacrificed.  Hundreds  of  thousands  of 
people  devote  their  lives  from  childhood  to  learning  to  twirl  their  legs 
rapidly  (dancers),  or  to  touch  notes  and  strings  very  rapidly  (musi- 
cians) or  to  turn  every  phrase  inside  out  and  find  a  rhyme  for  every 
word.1 

1  Tolstoy:  What  is  Art?  pp.  1-2  (written  in  1898). 


ART  AND  THE  AESTHETIC  EXPERIENCE    361 

Tolstoy's  point  in  thus  emphasizing  the  immense  energies 
devoted  to  artistic  enterprises  is  to  lead  us  to  consider  what  is 
the  end  of  all  this  labor.  He  points  out  scathingly  the  ugli- 
ness, frivolity,  and  crudity  of  much  that  passes  for  drama  in 
the  theater,  for  music  in  the  concert  hall,  and  for  literature 
between  covers.  He  pleads  for  a  simple  art  that  shall  express 
with  sincerity  the  genuine  emotions  of  the  great  mass  of  men. 

Whatever  be  our  estimate  of  Tolstoy's  sweeping  condemna- 
tion of  so  much  of  what  has  come  to  be  regarded  as  classic 
beauty,  the  point  he  makes  about  the  commercialization  of 
art  is  incontrovertible.  If  art  is  an  industry,  the  good  is  de- 
termined, as  it  were,  by  popular  vote.  The  many  must  be 
pleased  rather  than  the  discriminating.  While,  as  has  been 
noted,  aesthetic  appreciation  is  fairly  general,  appreciation  of 
the  subtler  forms  of  art  requires  training.  The  glaring,  the 
conspicuous,  the  broad  effect,  is  more  likely  to  win  rapid 
popular  approval  than  the  subtle,  the  quiet,  and  the  fragile. 
That  taste  is  readily  educable  is  true.  But  when  immediate 
profits  are  the  end,  one  cannot  pause  to  educate  the  public. 
And  publishing  and  the  theater  are  two  conspicuous  instances 
of  the  conflicts  that  not  infrequently  arise  between  standards 
of  economic  return  and  standards  of  aesthetic  merit.  Even 
where  there  is  no  deliberate  selection  of  the  worse  rather  than 
the  better,  commercial  standards  operate  to  put  the  novel  in  art 
at  a  discount.  As  already  pointed  out,  we  tend  to  appreciate 
forms  and  ideas  to  which  we  are  accustomed.  In  conse- 
quence, where  commercial  demands  make  immediate  wide- 
spread appreciation  necessary,  the  untried,  the  odd,  the  radi- 
cal innovation  in  music,  literature,  or  drama,  is  a  questionable 
venture.  There  are  notable  instances  of  works  which,  though 
eventually  recognized  as  great,  had  to  go  begging  at  first  for 
a  publisher  or  a  producer.  This  was  the  case  with  some  of 
Meredith's  earlier  novels;  later  Meredith,  as  a  publisher's 
reader,  turned  down  some  of  Shaw.  The  same  inhospitality 
met  some  of  the  plays  of  Ibsen  and  some  of  the  symphonies  of 
Tschaikowsky. 


862  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

Art  and  morals.  Attention  has  already  been  called  to  the 
fact  that  objects  of  art  are  powerful  vehicles  for  social  prop- 
aganda. Indeed  some  works  become  famous  less  for  their  in- 
trinsic beauty  than  for  their  moral  force.1  The  effectiveness 
of  art  forms  as  instruments  of  propaganda  lies  in  the  fact, 
previously  noted,  that  the  ideas  presented,  with  all  the  accou- 
terments  of  color,  form,  and  movement,  are  incomparably 
effective  in  stimulating  passion;  ideas  thus  aroused  in  the  be- 
holder have  the  vivid  momentum  of  emotion  to  sustain  them. 
There  is  only  rhetorical  exaggeration  in  the  saying,  "  Let  me 
sing  a  country's  songs,  and  I  care  not  who  makes  its  laws." 
Plato  was  one  of  the  first  to  recognize  how  influential  art 
could  be  in  influencing  men's  actions  and  attitudes.  So  keenly 
did  he  realize  its  possible  influence,  that  in  constructing  his 
ideal  state  he  provided  for  the  rigid  regulation  of  all  artistic 
production  by  the  governing  power,  and  the  exile  of  all  poets. 
He  felt  deeply  how  insinuatingly  persuasive  poets  could  be- 
come with  their  dangerous  "  beautiful  lies."  Artists  have, 
indeed,  not  infrequently  been  revolutionaries,  at  least  in  the 
sense  that  the  world  which  they  so  ecstatically  pictured  makes 
even  the  best  of  actual  worlds  look  pale  and  paltry  in  com- 
parison. The  imaginative  genius  has  naturally  enough  been 
discontented  with  an  existing  order  that  could  not  possibly 
measure  up  to  his  ardent  specifications.  Shelley  is  possibly 
the  supreme  example  of  the  type;  against  his  incorrigible 
construction  of  perfect  worlds  in  imagination  he  set  the  real 
world  in  which  men  live,  and  found  it  hateful. 

In  consequence  of  this  discontent  which  the  imaginative 
artist  so  often  expresses  with  the  real  world,  and  the  power  of 
his  enthusiastic  visions  to  win  the  loyalties  and  affections  of 
men,  many  moralists  and  statesmen  have,  like  Plato,  regarded 
the  creative  artist  with  suspicion.  They  have  half  believed 
the  lyric  boast  of  the  Celtic  poet  who  wrote: 

1  The  classic  instance  of  a  work  that  certainly  was  notable  in  its  early 
history  for  its  propaganda  value  is  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin.  An  extreme  instance 
of  a  book  famous  almost  exclusively  for  its  vivid  propaganda  is  Upton  Sin- 
clair's The  Jungle. 


ART  AND  THE  AESTHETIC  EXPERIENCE    363 

"One  man  with  a  dream  at  pleasure, 

Shall  go  forth  and  conquer  a  crown, 
And  three  with  a  new  song's  measure, 
Can  trample  an  empire  down. 

"We,  in  the  ages  lying, 

In  the  buried  past  of  the  earth, 
Built  Nineveh  with  our  sighing, 

And  Babel  itself  with  our  mirth; 
We  o'erthrew  them  with  prophesying 

To  the  old  of  the  new  world's  worth, 
For  each  age  is  a  dream  that  is  dying, 

Or  one  that  is  coming  to  birth." l 

Many,  therefore,  who  have  reflected  upon  art  —  Plato  first 
and  chiefly  —  have  insisted  that  art  must  be  used  to  express 
only  those  ideas  and  emotions  which  when  acted  upon  would 
have  beneficent  social  consequences.  Only  those  stories  are 
to  be  told,  those  pictures  to  be  painted,  those  songs  to  be  sung, 
which  contribute  to  the  welfare  of  the  state.  Many  artists 
have  similarly  felt  a  Puritanical  responsibility;  they  have  told 
only  those  tales  which  could  be  pointed  with  a  moral.  The 
supreme  example  of  this  dedication  of  art  to  a  moral  purpose 
is  found  in  the  Middle  Ages,  when  all  beauty  of  architecture, 
painting,  and  much  of  literature  and  drama,  was  pervaded,  as 
it  was  inspired,  with  the  Christian  message.  Later  Milton 
writes  at  the  beginning  of  Paradise  Lost: 

"...  What  in  me  is  dark, 
Illumine,  what  is  low  —  raise  and  support, 
That  to  the  height  of  this  great  argument 
I  may  assert  Eternal  Providence, 
And  justify  the  ways  of  God  to  man."  * 

In  a  sense,  the  supreme  achievements  of  creative  genius 
have  been  notable  instances  of  the  expression  of  great  moral 
or  religious  or  social  ideals.  Lucretius's  On  the  Nature  of 
Things  is  the  noblest  and  most  passionate  extant  rendering 
of  the  materialistic  conception  of  life.  Goethe's  Faust  ex- 
presses in  epic  magnificence  a  whole  romantic  philosophy 

1  O'Shaughnessy:  Ode  to  the  Music-Makers. 
*  Milton:  Paradise  Lost,  book  i,  lines  22-20. 


364       THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

of  endless  exploration  and  infinite  desire.  Dante's  Divine 
Comedy  sums  up  in  a  single  magnificent  epic  the  spirit  and 
meaning  of  the  mediaeval  point  of  view.  As  Henry  Osborn 
Taylor  writes  of  it: 

Yet  even  the  poem  itself  was  a  climax  long  led  up  to.  The  power 
of  its  feeling  had  been  preparing  in  the  conceptions,  even  in  the  rea- 
sonings, which  through  the  centuries  had  been  gaining  ardour  as 
they  became  part  of  the  entire  natures  of  men  and  women.  Thus 
had  mediaeval  thought  become  emotionalized  and  plastic  and  living 
in  poetry  and  art.  Otherwise,  even  Dante's  genius  could  not  have 
fused  the  contents  of  mediaeval  thought  into  a  poem.  How  many 
passages  in  the  Commedia  illustrate  this  —  like  the  lovely  picture  of 
Lia  moving  in  the  flowering  meadow,  with  her  fair  hands  making  her 
a  garland.  The  twenty-third  canto  of  the  Paradiso,  telling  of  the 
triumph  of  Christ  and  the  Virgin,  yields  a  larger  illustration;  and 
within  it,  as  a  very  concrete  lyric  instance,  floats  that  flower  of 
angelic  love,  the  song  of  Gabriel  circling  the  Lady  of  Heaven  with  its 
melody,  and  giving  quintessential  utterance  to  the  love  and  adora- 
tion which  the  Middle  Ages  had  intoned  to  the  Virgin.  Yes,  if  it  be 
Dante's  genius,  it  is  also  the  gathering  emotion  of  the  centuries, 
which  lifts  the  last  cantos  of  the  Paradiso  from  glory  to  glory,  and 
makes  this  closing  singing  of  the  Commedia  such  supreme  poetry. 
Nor  is  it  the  emotional  element  alone  that  reaches  its  final  voice  in 
Dante.  Passage  after  passage  of  the  Paradiso  is  the  apotheosis  of 
scholastic  thought  and  ways  of  stating  it,  the  very  apotheosis,  for 
example,  of  those  harnessed  phrases  hi  which  the  line  of  great  scho- 
lastics had  endeavoured  to  put  hi  words  the  universalities  of  sub- 
stance and  accident  and  the  absolute  qualities  of  God.1 

In  these  supreme  instances  the  ideas  have  been  given  a  gen- 
uinely aesthetic  expression.  They  are  beautiful  in  form  and 
music,  as  well  as  in  content  and  vision.  But  not  infrequently 
where  propaganda  appears,  art  flies  out  of  the  window.  Many 
modern  plays  and  novels  might  be  cited,  which  in  their  serious 
devotion  to  the  enunciation  of  some  social  ideal,  lapse  from 
song  into  statistics.  The  artist  with  his  eye  on  the  social  con- 
sequences of  his  work  may  come  altogether  to  cease  to  regard 
standards  of  beauty.  It  is  only  the  rare  genius  who  can  make 

>  Taylor:  The  Mediaeval  Mind,  vol.  u,  pp.  588-89. 


ART  AND  THE  /ESTHETIC  EXPERIENCE    365 

poetry  out  of  politics.  Even  Shelley  lapses  into  deadly  and 
arid  prosiness  when  his  chief  interest  becomes  the  presenta- 
tion of  the  political  ideas  of  Godwin. 

In  contrast  with  the  theory  that  art  has  a  social  responsi- 
bility, that  so  powerful  an  instrument  must  be  used  exclu- 
sively in  the  presentation  of  adequate  social  ideals,  must  be 
set  the  doctrine,  widely  current  in  the  late  nineteenth  century, 
of  "  art  for  art's  sake."  To  the  exponents  of  this  point  of  view, 
the  artist  has  only  one  responsibility,  the  creation  of  beauty. 
It  is  his  to  realize  in  form  every  pulsation  of  interest  and 
desire,  to  provide  every  possible  exquisite  sensation.  The 
artist  must  not  be  a  preacher;  he  must  not  tell  men  what  is 
the  good;  he  must  show  them  the  good,  which  is  identical 
with  the  beautiful.  And  he  must  exhibit  the  beautiful  in 
every  unique  and  lovely  posture  which  can  be  imagined, 
and  which  he  can  skillfully  realize  in  color,  in  word,  or  in 
sound.  Art  is  its  own  justification;  "  a  thing  of  beauty  is  a 
joy  forever." 

Where  art  is  governed  by  such  intentions,  form  and  ma- 
terial become  more  important  than  expression.  Thus  there 
develops  in  France  in  the  late  nineteenth  century  a  school  of 
Symbolists  and  Sensationalists  in  poetry,  whose  single  aim  is 
the  production  of  precise  and  beautiful  sensations  through 
the  specific  use  of  evocative  words.  The  form  and  the  style 
become  everything  in  literature,  in  painting,  and  the  plastic 
arts.  The  emphasis  is  put  upon  exquisiteness  in  decoration, 
upon  precision  in  technique,  upon  loveliness  of  material.  The 
Pre-Raphaelite  movement  in  poetry,  with  its  emphasis  on  the 
use  of  picturesque  and  decorative  epithets,  the  exclusive  em- 
phasis in  some  modern  music  on  subtlety  of  technique  in  tone 
and  color,  are  recent  examples. 

The  position  taken  has  clearly  this  much  justification.  A 
work  does  not  become  a  work  of  art  through  the  fact  that  it 
expresses  noble  sentiments.  The  most  righteous  sermon  may 
not  be  beautiful.  Whatever  be  the  source  of  its  inspiration, 
art  must  make  its  appeal  through  the  palpable  and  undeni- 


366    M  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

able  beauty  of  the  formal  embodiment  it  has  given  to  its 
vision.  However  much  an  object  be  prized  as  a  moral  instru- 
ment, unless  it  stirs  the  senses  and  the  imagination,  it  hardly 
can  be  called  a  work  of  art.  On  the  other  hand,  things  intrin- 
sically beautiful  do  seem  to  be  their  own  justification.  A 
poem  of  Keats,  a  Japanese  print,  a  delicate  vase,  or  an  ex- 
quisite song  demand  no  moral  justification.  They  are  their 
own  sufficient  excuse  for  being. 

But  the  "  art  for  art's  sake  "  doctrine,  carried  to  extremes, 
results  in  mere  decadence  or  triviality.  It  produces  at  best 
exquisite  decorative  trifles  rather  than  works  of  a  large  and 
serious  beauty.  Music  seems  to  be  the  art  where  sheer  beauty 
of  form  is  its  own  justification,  for  music  can  hardly  be  used  as 
a  specific  medium  of  communication.  Those  compositions 
that  purport  to  be  "program  music,"  to  convey  definite 
impressions  of  particular  scenes  or  ideas,  are  somewhat 
halting  attempts  to  use  music  as  one  uses  language.  Yet 
even  in  music,  though  we  may  enjoy  ingenious  and  fluent 
melodic  trifles,  we  regard  them  less  highly  than  the  earnest 
and  magnificent  beauty  of  a  Beethoven  symphony. 

But  because  art  is  only  effective  when  it  appeals  to  the 
senses  and  to  the  imagination  does  not  mean  that  the  senses 
and  the  imagination  must  be  stirred  by  insignificance.  The 
artist  may  use  the  rhythms  of  music,  line  and  color,  the  sug- 
gestiveness  of  words,  in  the  interests  of  ideal  values.  Gifted, 
as  he  is,  with  imaginative  foresight  to  imagine  a  world  better 
than  the  one  in  which  he  is  living,  he  may,  by  picturing  ideals 
in  persuasive  form,  not  only  bring  them  before  the  mind  of 
man,  but  insinuate  them  into  his  heart.  The  rational  artist 
may  note  the  possibilities  afoot  in  his  environment.  He  may 
treasure  these  hints  of  human  happiness,  and  by  giving  them 
vivid  reality  in  the  forms  of  art  indicate  captivatingly  to  men 
where  possible  perfections  lie.  "  For  your  young  men  shall 
see  visions,  and  your  old  men  shall  dream  dreams. ' '  The  artist 
may  become  the  most  influential  of  prophets,  for  his  prophe- 
cies come  to  men  not  as  arbitrary  counsels,  but  as  pictures  of 


ART  AND  THE  AESTHETIC  EXPERIENCE    367 

Perfection  intrinsically  lovely  and  intriguing.  When  Socrates 
is  asked  whether  or  not  his  perfect  city  exists,  he  replies  that 
it  exists  only  in  Heaven,  but  that  men  in  beholding  it  may,  in 
the  light  of  that  divine  pattern,  learn  to  attain  in  their  earthly 
cities  a  not  dissimilar  beauty. 


CHAPTER  XIV 
SCIENCE  AND  SCIENTIFIC  METHOD 

What  science  is.  Science  may  be  considered  either  as  the 
product  of  a  certain  type  of  human  activity,  or  as  a  human 
activity  satisfactory  even  apart  from  its  fruits.  As  an  activ- 
ity, it  is  a  highly  refined  form  of  that  process  of  reflection  by 
which  man  is,  in  the  first  place,  enabled  to  make  himself  at 
home  in  the  world.  It  differs  from  the  ordinary  or  common- 
sense  process  of  thinking,  as  we  shall  presently  see,  in  being 
more  thoroughgoing,  systematic,  and  sustained.  It  is  com- 
mon sense  of  a  most  extraordinarily  refined  and  penetrating 
kind.  But  before  examining  the  procedure  of  science,  we 
must  consider  briefly  its  imposing  product,  that  science  whose 
vast  structure  seems  to  the  layman  so  final,  imposing,  and 
irrefragable. 

From  the  point  of  view  of  the  product  which  is  the  fruit  of 
reflective  activity,  Science  may  be  defined  as  a  body  of  sys- 
tematized and  verified  knowledge,  expressing  in  general  terms  the 
relations  of  exactly  defined  phenomena.  In  all  the  respects  here 
noted,  science  may  be  contrasted  with  those  matters  of  com- 
mon knowledge,  of  opinion  or  belief  which  are  the  fruit  of  our 
casual  daily  thinking  and  experience.  Science  is,  hi  the  first 
place,  a  body  of  systematized  knowledge.  One  has  but  to 
contrast  the  presentation  of  facts  in  an  ordinary  textbook  in 
zoology  with  the  random  presentation  of  facts  in  a  newspaper 
or  in  casual  conversation.  In  science  the  facts  bearing  on  a 
given  problem  are  presented  as  completely  as  possible  and 
are  classified  with  reference  to  their  significant  bearings  upon 
the  problem.  Moreover  the  facts  gathered  and  the  classifi- 
cations of  relationship  made  are  not  more  or  less  accurate,  more 
or  less  true;  they  are  tested  and  verified  results.  That  putre- 
faction, for  example,  is  due  to  the  life  of  micro-organisms  in 


SCIENCE  AND  SCIENTIFIC  METHOD       369 

the  rotting  substance  is  not  a  mere  assumption.  It  has  been 
proved,  tested,  and  verified  by  methods  we  shall  have  occasion 
presently  to  examine. 

Scientific  knowledge,  moreover,  is  general  knowledge.  The 
relations  it  expresses  are  not  true  in  some  cases  of  the  precise 
kind  described,  untrue  in  others.  The  relations  hold  true 
whenever  these  precise  phenomena  occur.  This  generality 
of  scientific  relations  is  closely  connected  with  the  fact  that 
science  expresses  relations  of  exactly  defined  phenomena. 
When  a  scientific  law  expresses  a  certain  relation  between  A 
and  B,  it  says  in  effect:  Given  A  as  meaning  this  particular 
set  of  conditions  and  no  others,  and  B  as  meaning  this  par- 
ticular set  of  conditions  and  no  others,  then  this  relation  holds 
true.  The  relations  between  exactly  defined  phenomena 
are  expressed  in  general  terms,  that  is,  the  relations  expressed 
hold  true,  given  certain  conditions,  whatever  be  the  accom- 
panying circumstances.  It  makes  no  difference  what  be  the 
kind  of  objects,  the  law  of  gravitation  still  holds  true:  the  at- 
traction between  objects  is  directly  proportional  to  the  prod- 
uct of  their  masses  and  inversely  proportional  to  the  square 
of  the  distance  between  them. 

Thus  science  as  an  activity  is  marked  off  by  its  method  and 
its  intent  rather  than  by  its  subject-matter.  As  a  method  it 
is  characterized  by  thoroughness,  persistency,  completeness, 
generality,  and  system.  As  regards  its  intent,  it  is  charac- 
terized by  its  freedom  from  partiality  or  prejudice,  and  its  in- 
terest in  discovering  what  the  facts  are,  apart  from  personal 
expectations  and  desires.  In  the  scientific  mood  we  wish  to 
know  what  the  nature  of  things  is.  There  are  men  who  seem 
to  have  a  boundless,  insatiable  curiosity,  who  have  a  lifelong 
passion  for  acquiring  facts  and  understanding  the  relationship 
between  them. 

Science  as  explanation.  The  satisfactions  which  scientific 
investigators  derive  from  their  inquiries  are  various.  There 
is,  in  the  first  place,  the  sheer  pleasure  of  gratifying  the  normal 
human  impulse  of  curiosity,  developed  in  some  people  to  an 


370  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

extraordinary  degree.  Experience  to  a  sensitive  and  in- 
quiring mind  is  full  of  challenges  and  provocations  to  look 
further.  The  appearance  of  dew,  an  eclipse  of  the  sun,  a  flash 
of  lightning,  a  peal  of  thunder,  even  such  commonplace  phe- 
nomena as  the  falling  of  objects,  or  the  rusting  of  iron,  the 
evaporation  of  water,  the  melting  of  snow,  may  provoke  in- 
quiry, may  suggest  the  question,  "  Why  ?  "  Experience,  as  it 
comes  to  us  through  the  senses,  is  broken  and  fragmentary. 
The  connections  between  the  occurrences  of  Nature  seem 
casual,  and  connected,  as  it  were,  purely  by  accident.  A 
black  sky  portends  rain.  But  such  an  inference  made  by  the 
untrained  mind  is  merely  the  result  of  habit.  A  black  sky 
has  been  followed  by  rain  in  the  past;  the  same  sequence  of 
events  may  be  expected  in  the  future.  But  the  connection 
between  the  two  is  not  really  understood.  Sometimes  ex- 
periences seem  to  contradict  each  other.  The  straight  stick 
looks  crooked  or  broken  in  water.  The  apparent  anomalies 
and  contradictions,  the  welter  of  miscellaneous  facts  with 
which  we  come  in  contact  through  the  experiences  of  the 
senses,  are  clarified  by  the  generalizations  of  science.  The 
world  of  facts  ceases  to  be  random,  miscellaneous,  and  incal- 
culable. Every  phenomenon  that  occurs  is  seen  to  be  an 
instance  of  a  general  law  that  holds  among  all  phenomena  that 
resemble  it  in  certain  definable  respects.  Thus  the  apparent 
bending  of  the  stick  in  water  is  seen  to  be  a  special  case  of  the 
laws  of  the  refraction  of  light;  the  apparent  anomaly  or  con- 
tradiction of  our  sense  experiences  is,  as  we  say,  explained. 
What  seemed  to  be  a  contradiction  and  an  exception  is  seen 
to  be  a  clear  case  of  a  regular  law. 

The  desire  for  explanation  in  some  minds  is  very  strong. 
Science  explains  in  the  sense  that  it  reduces  a  phenomenon  to 
the  terms  of  a  general  principle,  whatever  that  principle  may  be. 
When  we  meet  a  phenomenon  that  seems  to  come  under  no 
general  law,  we  are  confronted  with  a  mystery  and  a  miracle. 
We  do  not  know  what  to  expect  from  it.  But  when  we  can 
place  a  phenomenon  under  a  general  law,  applicable  in  a  wide 


SCIENCE  AND  SCIENTIFIC  METHOD       371 

variety  of  instances,  everything  that  can  be  said  of  all  the 
other  instances  in  which  the  law  applies,  applies  also  to  this 
particular  case. 

Think  of  heat  as  motion,  and  whatever  is  true  of  motion  will  be 
true  of  heat;  but  we  have  had  a  hundred  experiences  of  motion  for 
every  one  of  heat.  Think  of  the  rays  passing  through  this  lens  as 
bending  toward  the  perpendicular,  and  you  substitute  for  the  com- 
paratively unfamiliar  lens  the  very  familiar  notion  of  a  particular 
change  in  direction  of  a  line,  of  which  motion  every  day  brings  us 
countless  examples.1 

It  must  be  noticed  that  the  explanation  which  science  gives, 
is  really  in  answer  to  the  question,  "  How  ?  "  not  the  ques- 
tion, "  Why  ?  "  We  are  said  to  understand  phenomena  when 
we  understand  the  laws  which  govern  them.  But  to  say  that 
certain  given  phenomena  —  the  appearance  of  dew,  the  fall- 
ing of  rain,  the  flash  of  lightning,  the  putrefaction  of  animal 
matter  —  obey  certain  laws  is  purely  metaphorical.  Phenom- 
ena do  not  obey  laws  in  the  sense  in  which  we  say  the  child 
follows  the  commands  of  his  parents,  or  the  soldier  those  of 
his  officer.  The  laws  of  science  simply  describe  the  relations 
which  have  repeatedly  been  observed  to  exist  between  phe- 
nomena. They  are  laws  in  the  sense  that  they  are  invari- 
ably observed  successions.  When  it  has  been  found  that 
whenever  A  is  present,  B  is  also  present,  that  the  presence  of 
A  is  always  correlated  with  the  presence  of  B,  and  the  pres- 
ence of  B  is  always  correlated  with  the  presence  of  .A,  we  say 
we  have  discovered  a  scientific  law. 

Science  thus  explains  hi  the  sense  that  it  reduces  the  multi- 
plicity and  variety  of  phenomena  to  simple  and  general  laws. 
The  ideal  of  unity  and  simplicity  is  the  constant  ideal  toward 
which  science  moves,  and  its  success  in  thus  reducing  the  mis- 
cellaneous facts  of  experience  has  been  phenomenal.  The 
history  of  science  in  the  nineteenth  century  offers  some  in- 
teresting examples.  The  discovery  of  the  conservation  of 
energy  and  its  transformations  has  revealed  to  us  the  unity 

i  James:  Psychology ,  vol.  u,  p.  342. 


872  ;,  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

of  force.  It  has  shown,  for  example,  that  the  phenomenon  of 
heat  could  be  explained  by  molecular  motions.  "Electricity 
annexed  magnetism."  Finally  the  relations  of  electricity  and 
light  are  now  known;  "the  three  realms  of  light,  of  electricity 
and  of  magnetism,  previously  separated,  form  now  but  one; 
and  this  annexation  seems  final." 

There  has  been  thus  an  increasing  approach  toward  unity, 
toward  the  summation  of  phenomena  under  one  simple,  gen- 
eral formula.1  Poincare",  in  reviewing  this  progress,  writes: 

The  better  one  knows  the  properties  of  matter  the  more  one  sees 
continuity  reign.  Since  the  labors  of  Andrews  and  Van  der  Wals,  we 
get  an  idea  of  how  the  passage  is  made  from  the  liquid  to  the  gaseous 
state  and  that  this  passage  is  not  abrupt.  Similarly  there  is  no  gap 
between  the  liquid  and  solid  states,  and  in  the  proceedings  of  a  recent 
congress  is  to  be  seen,  alongside  of  a  work  on  the  rigidity  of  liquids, 
a  memoir  on  the  flow  of  solids.  .  .  . 

Finally  the  methods  of  physics  have  invaded  a  new  domain,  that 
of  chemistry;  physical  chemistry  is  born.  It  is  still  very  young,  but 
we  already  see  that  it  will  enable  us  to  connect  such  phenomena  as 
electrolysis,  osmosis,  and  the  motions  of  ions. 

From  this  rapid  exposition  what  shall  we  conclude? 

Everything  considered,  we  have  approached  unity;  we  have  not 
been  as  quick  as  we  had  hoped  fifty  years  ago,  we  have  not  always 
taken  the  predicted  way;  but,  finally,  we  have  gained  ever  so  much 
ground.2 

The  satisfaction  which  disinterested  science  gives  to  the 
investigator  is  thus,  in  the  first  place,  one  of  clarification. 
Science,  by  enabling  us  to  see  the  wide  general  laws  of  which 
all  phenomena  are  particular  instances,  emancipates  the 
imagination.  It  frees  us  from  being  bound  by  the  accidental 
suggestions  which  come  to  us  from  mere  personal  caprice, 

1  Poincarfi  notes  also  the  opposite  tendency,  for  science  to  grow  more  com- 
plex. As  he  says:  "And  Newton's  law  itself?  Its  simplicity,  so  long  un- 
detected, is  perhaps  only  apparent.  Who  knows  whether  it  is  not  due  to 
some  complicated  mechanism,  to  the  impact  of  some  subtile  matter  animated 
by  irregular  movements,  and  whether  it  has  not  become  simple  only  through 
the  action  of  averages  and  of  great  numbers?  In  any  case  it  is  difficult  not  to 
suppose  that  the  true  law  contains  complementary  terms,  which  would  be- 
come sensible  at  small  distances."  (Foundations  of  Science,  p.  132.) 

'Poincare:  IM  cit.,  pp.  153-54. 


SCIENCE  AND  SCIENTIFIC  METHOD       373 

habit,  and  environment,  and  enables  us  to  observe  facts  un- 
colored  by  passions  and  hope,  and  to 'discover  those  laws  of 
the  universe  which,  in  the  words  of  Karl  Pearson,  "hold  for 
all  normally  constituted  minds."  In  ordinary  experience, 
our  impressions  and  beliefs  are  the  results  of  inaccurate  sense 
observation  colored  by  hope  and  fear,  aversion  and  revulsion, 
and  limited  by  accidental  circumstance.  Through  science 
we  are  enabled  to  detach  ourselves  from  the  personal  and  the 
particular  and  to  see  the  world,  as,  undistorted,  it  must  ap- 
pear to  any  man  anywhere: 

The  scientific  attitude  of  mind  involves  a  sweeping  away  of  all 
other  desires  in  the  interests  of  the  desire  to  know  —  it  involves  sup- 
pression of  hopes  and  fears,  loves  and  hates,  and  the  whole  subjective 
emotional  life,  until  we  become  subdued  to  the  material,  able  to  see 
it  frankly,  without  preconceptions,  without  bias,  without  any  wish 
except  to  see  it  as  it  is,  and  without  any  belief  that  what  it  is  must  be 
determined  by  some  relation,  positive  or  negative,  to  what  we  should 
like  it  to  be,  or  to  what  we  can  easily  imagine  it  to  be.1 

Besides  the  satisfactions  of  system  and  clarity  which  the 
sciences  give,  they  afford  man  power  and  security.  "  Knowl- 
edge is  power,"  said  Francis  Bacon,  meaning  thereby  that  to 
know  the  connection  between  causes  and  effects  was  to  be 
able  to  regulate  conditions  so  as  to  be  able  to  produce  desira- 
ble effects  and  eliminate  undesirable  ones.  Even  the  most 
disinterested  inquiry  may  eventually  produce  practical  re- 
sults of  a  highly  important  character.  "Science  is,"  as 
Bertrand  Russell  says,  "  to  the  ordinary  reader  of  newspapers, 
represented  by  a  varying  selection  of  sensational  triumphs, 
such  as  wireless  telegraphy  and  aeroplanes,  radio-activity, 
etc."  But  these  practical  triumphs  hi  the  control  of  natural 
resources  are  often  casual  incidents  of  patiently  constructed 
systems  of  knowledge  which  were  built  up  without  the  slight- 
est reference  to  their  fruits  in  human  welfare.  Wireless 
telegraphy,  for  example,  was  made  possible  by  the  disinter- 
ested and  abstract  inquiry  of  three  men,  Faraday,  Maxwell, 
and  Hertz. 

1  Bertrand  Russell:  Mysticism  and  Logic,  p.  44. 


374  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

In  alternating  layers  of  experiment  and  theory  these  three  men 
built  up  the  modern  theory  of  electromagnetism,  and  demonstrated 
the  identity  of  light  with  electromagnetic  waves.  The  system  which 
they  discovered  is  one  of  profound  intellectual  interest,  bringing 
together  and  unifying  an  endless  variety  of  apparently  detached 
phenomena,  and  displaying  a  cumulative  mental  power  which  cannot 
but  afford  delight  to  every  generous  spirit.  The  mechanical  details 
which  remained  to  be  adjusted  in  order  to  utilize  their  discoveries 
for  a  practical  system  of  telegraphy  demanded,  no  doubt,  very  con- 
siderable ingenuity,  but  had  not  that  broad  sweep  and  that  univer- 
sality which  could  give  them  intrinsic  interest  as  an  object  of  disin- 
terested contemplation.1 

Science  and  a  world  view.  One  of  the  values  of  disinter- 
ested science  that  is  of  considerable  psychological  importance 
is  the  change  in  attitude  it  brings  about  in  man's  realization 
of  his  place  in  the  universe.  Lucretius  long  ago  thought  to 
free  men's  minds  from  terror  and  superstition  by  showing 
them  how  regular,  ordered,  and  inevitable  was  the  nature  of 
things.  The  superstitious  savage  walks  in  dread  among  nat- 
ural phenomena.  He  lives  in  a  world  which  he  imagines  to  be 
governed  by  capricious  and  incalculable  forces.  To  a  certain 
extent  he  can,  as  we  have  seen,  control  these.  But  he  is  ill  at 
ease.  He  is  surrounded  by  vast  ambiguous  forces,  and  moves 
in  a  trembling  ignorance  of  what  will  happen  next. 

To  those  educated  to  the  scientific  point  of  view,  there  is  a 
solidity  and  assurance  about  the  frame  of  things4  Beneath 
the  variability  and  flux,  which  they  continually  perceive,  is 
the  changeless  law  which  they  have  learned  to  comprehend. 
Although  they  discover  that  the  processes  of  Nature  move  on 
indifferent  to  the  welfare  of  man,  they  know,  nevertheless, 
that  they  are  dependable  and  certain,  that  they  are  fixed  con- 
ditions of  life  which,  to  a  certain  extent,  can  be  controlled,  and 
the  incidental  goods  and  ills  of  which  are  definitely  calculable. 
Heraclitus,  the  ancient  Greek  philosopher,  noted  the  eternal 
flux,  yet  perceived  the  steady  order  beneath,  so  that  he  could 
eventually  assert  that  all  things  changed  save  the  law  of 

1Bertrand  Russell:  Mysticism  and  Logic,  p.  34  ("Science  and  Culture")* 


SCIENCE  AND  SCIENTIFIC  METHOD       875 

change.  ~The  magnificent  regularity  of  natural  processes  has 
been  repeatedly  remarked  by  students  of  science. 

The  aesthetic  value  of  science.  As  pointed  out  in  the 
chapter  on  Art,  scientific  discovery  is  more  than  a  mere  tabu- 
lation of  facts.  It  is  also  a  work  of  the  imagination,  and 
gives  to  the  worker  hi  the  scientific  field  precisely  the  same 
sense  of  satisfaction  as  that  experienced  by  the  creative  artist. 
Of  Kelvin  his  biographer  writes: 

Like  Faraday  and  the  other  great  masters  in  science,  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  let  his  thoughts  become  so  filled  with  the  facts  on  which  his 
attention  was  concentrated  that  the  relations  subsisting  between 
the  various  phenomena  gradually  dawned  upon  him,  and  he  saw 
them,  as  if  by  some  process  of  instinctive  vision  denied  to  others. 
.  .  .  His  imagination  was  vivid;  in  his  intense  enthusiasm,  he  seemed 
to  be  driven  rather  than  to  drive  himself.  The  man  was  lost  in  his 
subject,  becoming  as  truly  inspired  as  is  the  artist  in  the  act  of 
creation.1 

In  the  working-out  of  a  principle,  the  systematizing  of 
many  facts  under  a  sweeping  generalization,  the  scientist 
finds  a  creator's  joy.  He  is  giving  form  and  significance  to 
the  disordered  and  chaotic  materials  of  experience.  The 
scientific  imagination  differs  from  the  artistic  imagination 
simply  in  that  it  is  controlled  with  reference  to  facts.  The 
first  flash  is  subjected  to  criticism,  examination,  revision,  and 
testing.  But  the  grand  generalizations  of  science  originate 
in  just  such  an  unpredictable  original  vision.  The  discovery 
of  the  fitting  formula  which  clarifies  a  mass  of  facts  hitherto 
chaotic  and  contradictory  is  very  closely  akin  to  the  process 
by  which  a  poet  discovers  an  appropriate  epithet  or  a  musi- 
cian an  apposite  chord. 

But  hi  its  products  as  well  as  in  its  processes,  scientific  in- 
vestigations have  a  high  aesthetic  value.  There  is  symmetry, 
order,  and  splendor  in  the  relations  which  science  reveals. 
The  same  formal  beauty  that  appeals  to  us  in  a  Greek  statue 
or  a  Beethoven  symphony  is  to  be  found  in  the  universe,  but 

'vSyIvanua  P.  Thompson  :  The  Life  of  William  Thomson,  Baron  Kelnn  aj 
Largst  pp.  1125  ff. 


376  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

on  a  far  more  magnificent  scale.    There  is,  in  the  first  place, 
the  sense  of  rhythm  and  regularity: 

There  comes  [to  the  scientific  investigator]  a  sense  of  pervading 
order.  Probably  this  began  at  the  very  dawn  of  human  reason  — 
Then  man  first  discovered  the  year  with  its  magnificent  object- 
Jesson  of  regularly  recurrent  sequences,  and  it  has  been  growing  ever 
since.  Doubtless  the  early  forms  that  this  perception  of  order  took 
referred  to  somewhat  obvious  uniformities ;  but  is  there  any  essential 
difference  between  realizing  the  orderliness  of  moons  and  tides,  of 
seasons  and  migrations,  and  discovering  Bodes's  law  of  the  relations 
of  the  planets,  or  Mendel6eff's  "Periodic  Law"  of  the  relations  of 
the  atomic  weights  of  the  chemical  elements? x 

Ever  since  Newton's  day  the  harmony  of  the  spheres  has 
been  a  favorite  poetic  metaphor.  The  spaciousness  of  the 
solar  system  has  captivated  the  imagination,  as  have  the  time 
cycles  revealed  by  the  paths  of  comets  and  meteors.  The 
universe  seems  indeed,  as  revealed  by  science,  to  present  that 
quality  of  aesthetic  satisfaction  which  is  always  derived  from 
unity  in  multiplicity.  The  stars  are  as  innumerable  as  they 
are  ordered.  And  it  was  Lucretius,  the  poet  of  naturalism, 
who  was  wakened  to  wonder  and  admiration  at  the  ceaseless 
productivity,  inventiveness,  and  fertility  of  Nature.  We  find 
in  the  revelations  of  science  again  the  same  examples  of  deli- 
cacy and  fineness  of  structure  that  we  admire  so  much  in  the 
fine  arts.  The  brain  of  an  ant,  as  Darwin  said,  is  perhaps  the 
most  marvelous  speck  of  matter  in  the  universe.  Again  "  the 
physicists  tell  us  that  the  behaviour  of  hydrogen  gas  makes  it 
necessary  to  suppose  that  an  atom  of  it  must  have  a  constitu- 
tion as  complex  as  a  constellation,  with  about  eight  hundred 
separate  corpuscles."  2 

The  danger  of  "  pure  science."  The  fascinations  of  dis- 
interested inquiry  are  so  great  that  they  may  lead  to  a  kind  of 
scientific  intemperance.  The  abstracted  scientific  interest 
may  become  so  absorbed  in  the  working-out  of  small  details 
that  it  becomes  over-specialized,  narrow,  and  pedantic.  The 
pure  theorist  has  always  been  regarded  with  suspicion  by  the 

1  Thomson:  Introduction  to  Science,  p.  174.  *  Ibid:,  p.  176. 


SCIENCE  AND  SCIENTIFIC  METHOD       377 

practical  man.  His  concern  over  details  of  flora  or  fauna, 
over  the  precise  minutiae  of  ancient  hieroglyphics,  seems 
absurdly  trivial  in  comparison  with  the  central  passions  and 
central  purposes  of  mankind.  There  are  workers  in  every 
department  of  knowledge  who  become  wrapt  up  in  their 
specialties,  forgetting  the  forest  for  the  trees.  There  are  men 
so  absorbed  in  probing  the  crevices  of  their  own  little  niche  of 
knowledge  that  they  forget  the  bearings  of  their  researches. 
Especially  in  time  of  stress,  of  war  or  social  unrest,  men  have 
felt  a  certain  callousness  about  the  interests  of  the  abstrusely 
remote  scholar.  We  shall  have  occasion  to  note  presently 
that  it  is  in  this  coldness  and  emancipation  from  the  pressing 
demands  of  the  moment  that  science  has  produced  its  most 
pronounced  eventual  benefits  for  mankind.  But  an  uncon- 
trolled passion  for  facts  and  relations  may  degenerate  into  a 
mere  play  and  luxury  that  may  have  its  fascination  for  the 
expert  himself,  but  affords  neither  sweetness  nor  light  to  any 
one  else.  One  has  but  to  go  over  the  lists  of  doctors'  disserta- 
tions published  by  German  universities  during  the  late  nine- 
teenth century  to  find  examples  of  inquiry  that  seem  to  afford 
not  the  slightest  justification  in  the  way  of  eventual  good  to 
mankind.1 

Practical  or  applied  science.  Thus  far  we  have  been  con- 
sidering science  chiefly  as  an  activity  which  satisfies  some 
men  as  an  activity  in  itself,  by  the  aesthetic,  emotional,  and 
intellectual  values  they  derive  from  it.  But  a  fact  at  once 
paradoxical  and  significant  in  the  history  of  human  progress  is 
that  this  most  impersonal  and  disinterested  of  man's  activi- 
ties has  been  profoundly  influential  in  its  practical  fruits. 
The  practical  application  of  the  sciences  rests  on  the  utiliza- 
tion of  the  exact  formulations  of  pure  science.  Through  these 
formulations  we  can  control  phenomena  by  artificially  setting 
up  relations  of  which  science  has  learned  the  consequences, 

1  It  is  only  fair  to  say  that  literary  studies  have  been  marked  by  more 
barren  and  fruitless  investigations  (purely  philological  inquiry,  for  example) 
than  have  the  physical  sciences. 


378  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

thus  attaining  the  consequences  we  desire,  and  avoiding  those 
we  do  not. 

The  direct  influence  of  pure  science  on  practical  life  is  enormous. 
The  observations  of  Newton  on  the  relations  between  a  falling  stone 
and  the  moon,  of  Galvani  on  the  convulsive  movements  of  frogs'  legs 
in  contact  with  iron  and  copper,  of  Darwin  on  the  adaptation  of 
woodpeckers,  of  tree-frogs,  and  of  seeds  to  then*  surroundings,  of 
Kirchhoff  on  certain  lines  which  occur  in  the  spectrum  of  sunlight, 
of  other  investigators  on  the  life-history  of  bacteria  —  these  and 
kindred  observations  have  not  only  revolutionized  our  conception 
of  the  universe,  but  they  have  revolutionized  or  are  revolutionizing, 
our  practical  life,  our  means  of  transit,  our  social  conduct,  our 
treatment  of  disease.1 

Francis  Bacon  was  one  of  the  first  to  appreciate  explicitly 
the  possibilities  of  the  control  of  nature  in  the  interests  of 
human  welfare.  He  saw  the  vast  possibilities  which  a  careful 
and  comprehensive  study  of  the  workings  of  nature  had  in  the 
enlargement  of  human  comfort,  security,  and  power.  In  The 
New  Atlantis  he  envisages  an  ideal  commonwealth,  whose 
unique  and  singular  institution  is  a  House  of  Solomon,  a  kind 
of  Carnegie  Foundation  devoted  to  inquiry,  the  fruits  of 
which  might  be,  as  they  were,  exploited  in  the  interests  of 
human  happiness :  "  The  end  of  our  foundation  is  the  knowl- 
edge of  causes  and  the  secret  motions  of  things;  and  the 
enlarging  of  the  bounds  of  human  empire  to  the  effecting 
of  all  things  possible."  2 

Science  sometimes  appears  so  remote  and  alien  to  the  im- 
mediate concrete  objects  which  meet  and  interest  us  in  daily 
experience  that  we  tend  to  forget  that  historically  it  was  out  of 
concrete  needs  and  practical  interests  that  science  arose.  Ge- 
ometry, seemingly  a  clear  case  of  abstract  and  theoretical 
science,  arose  out  of  the  requirements  of  practical  surveying 
and  mensuration  among  the  Egyptians.  In  the  same  way 
botany  grew  out  of  herb  gathering  and  gardening. 

The  application  of  the  exact  knowledge  gained  by  the  pure 
sciences,  may,  if  properly  directed,  immeasurably  increase  the 

»  Karl  Pearson:  The  Grammar  of  Science,  pp.  35-36.     »  The  New  Atlantis. 

A- 


SCIENCE  AND  SCIENTIFIC  METHOD       379 

sum  of  human  welfare.  One  has  but  to  review  briefly  the 
history  of  invention  to  appreciate  this  truth  with  vividness 
and  detail.  The  great  variety  of  the  "applied  sciences" 
shows  the  extent  and  multiplicity  of  the  fruits  of  theoretical  in- 
quiry. Astronomy  plays  an  important  part  in  navigation ;  but 
it  also  earns  its  living  by  helping  the  surveyor  and  the  map- 
maker  and  by  supplying  the  world  with  accurate  time.  In- 
dustrial chemistry  offers,  perhaps,  the  most  striking  examples. 
There  is,  for  example,  the  fixation  of  nitrogen,  which  makes 
possible  the  artificial  production  of  ammonia  and  potash; 
the  whole  group  of  dye  industries  made  possible  through  the 
chemical  production  of  coal  tar;  the  industrial  utilization  of 
cellulose  in  the  paper,  twine,  and  leather  industries;  the  prom- 
ise of  eventual  production  on  a  large  scale  of  synthetic  rubber; 
the  electric  furnace,  which,  with  its  fourteen-thousand-degree 
range  of  heat,  makes  possible  untold  increase  in  the  effective- 
ness of  all  the  chemical  industries. 

Industrial  chemistry  is  only  one  instance.  The  application 
of  theoretical  inquiry  in  physics  has  made  possible  the  tele- 
graph, the  telephone,  wireless  telegraphy,  electric  motors,  and 
flying  machines.  Mineralogy  and  oceanography  have  opened 
up  new  stores  of  natural  resources.  Biological  research  has 
had  diverse  applications.  Bacteriological  inquiry  has  been 
fruitfully  applied  in  surgery,  hygiene,  agriculture,  and  the 
artificial  preservation  of  food.  The  principles  of  Mendelian 
inheritance  have  been  used  in  the  practical  improvement  of 
domestic  animals  and  cultivated  plants.  The  list  might  be 
indefinitely  extended.  The  sciences  arose  as  attempts,  moro 
or  less  successful,  to  solve  man's  practical  problems.  They 
became  historically  cut  off,  as  they  may  in  the  case  of  the  pure 
scientist  still  be  cut  off,  from  practical  considerations.  But  no 
matter  how  remote  and  abstract  they  become,  they  yield 
again  practical  fruits. 

Applied  science,  if  it  becomes  too  narrowly  interested  in 
practical  results,  limits  its  own  resources.  Purely  theoretical 
inquiry  may  be  of  the  most  immense  ultimate  advantage.  In 


380  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

a  sense  the  more  abstract  and  remote  science  becomes,  the 
more  eventual  promise  it  contains.  By  getting  away  from  the 
confusing  and  irrelevant  details  of  particular  situations,  sci- 
ence is  enabled  to  frame  generalizations  applicable  to  a  wide 
array  of  phenomena  differing  in  detail,  but  having  in  common 
significant  characteristics.  Men  can  learn  fruitfully  to  con- 
trol their  experience  precisely  because  they  can  emancipate 
themselves  from  the  immediate  demands  of  practical  life, 
from  the  suggestions  that  arise  in  the  course  of  instinctive  and 
habitual  action.  "A  certain  power  of  abstraction,  of  deliber- 
ate turning  away  from  the  habitual  responses  to  a  situation, 
was  required  before  men  could  be  emancipated  to  follow  up 
suggestions  that  in  the  end  are  fruitful."1 

Too  complete  absorption  in  immediate  problems  may  oper- 
ate to  deprive  action  of  that  sweeping  and  penetrating  vision 
which  a  freer  inquiry  affords.  The  temporarily  important 
may  be  the  less  important  in  the  long  run.  A  practical  adjust- 
ment of  detail  may  produce  immediate  benefits  in  the  way  of 
improved  industrial  processes  and  more  rapid  and  economical 
production,  but  some  seemingly  obscure  discovery  in  the  most 
abstruse  reaches  of  scientific  theory  may  eventually  be  of 
untold  practical  significance. 

Only  the  extremely  ignorant  can  question  the  utility  of,  let  us  say, 
the  prolonged  application  of  the  Greek  intellect  to  the  laws  of  conic 
sections.  Whether  we  think  of  bridges  or  projectiles,  of  the  curves 
of  ships,  or  of  the  rules  of  navigation,  we  must  think  of  conic  sections. 
The  rules  of  navigation,  for  instance,  are  in  part  based  on  astronomy. 
Kepler's  Laws  are  foundation  stones  of  that  science,  but  Kepler  dis- 
covered that  Mars  moves  in  an  ellipse  round  the  sun  in  one  of  the 
foci  by  a  deduction  from  conic  sections.  .  .  .  Yet  the  historical  fact 
is  that  these  conic  sections  were  studied  as  an  abstract  science  for 
eighteen  centuries  before  they  came  to  be  of  their  highest  use.2 

Pasteur,  whose  researches  are  of  .such  immediate  consequence 
in  human  health,  began  his  studies  in  the  crystalline  forms 
of  tartrates.  The  tremendous  commercial  uses  which  have 

1  Dewey:  How  We  Think,  p.  156. 

*  Thomaon:  Introduction  to  Science,  pp.  239-40. 


SCIENCE  AND  SCIENTIFIC  METHOD       381 

been  made  of  benzene  had  their  origin  "in  a  single  idea,  ad- 
vanced in  a  masterly  treatise  by  Auguste  Kekule  in  the  year 
1865."  l 

Practical  life  has  been  continually  enriched  by  theoretical 
inquiry.  Scientific  descriptions  increase  in  value  as  they 
become  absolutely  impersonal,  absolutely  precise,  and  espe- 
cially as  they  become  condensed  general  formulas,  which  will 
be  applicable  to  an  infinite  variety  of  particular  situations. 
And  such  descriptions  are  necessarily  abstract  and  theoretical. 

Analysis  of  scientific  procedure.  Scientific  method  is 
merely  common  sense  made  more  thoroughgoing  and  system- 
atic. Reflection  of  a  more  or  less  effective  kind  takes  place 
in  ordinary  experience  wherever  instinctive  or  habitual  action 
is  not  adequate  to  meet  a  situation,  whenever  the  individual 
has  a  problem  to  solve,  an  adjustment  to  make.  Thinking, 
of  some  kind,  goes  on  continually.  Scientific  thinking  merely 
means  careful,  safeguarded,  systematic  thinking.  It  is  think- 
ing alert  and  critical  of  its  own  methods.  As  contrasted 
with  ordinary  common-sense  thinking,  it  is  distinguished  by 
"caution,  carefulness,  thoroughness,  definiteness,  exactness, 
orderliness,  and  methodic  arrangement."  We  think,  in  any 
case,  because  we  have  to,  being  creatures  bora  with  a  set  of 
instincts  not  adequate  to  meet  the  conditions  of  our  environ- 
ment. We  can  think  carelessly  and  ineffectively,  or  carefully 
and  successfully. 

Scientific  method,  or  orderly,  critical,  and  systematic 
thinking,  is  not  applicable  to  one  subject-matter  exclusively. 
Examples  are  commonly  drawn  from  the  physical  or  chemical 
or  biological  laboratory,  but  the  elements  of  scientific  method 
may  be  illustrated  in  the  procedure  of  a  business  man  meeting 
a  practical  problem,  a  lawyer  sifting  evidence,  a  statesman 
framing  a  new  piece  of  legislation.  In  all  these  cases  the 
difference  between  a  genuinely  scientific  procedure  and  mere 
casual  and  random  common  sense  is  the  same. 

1  Quoted  by  Thomson  from  an  address  ou  "Technical  Chemistry"  by 
C  E.  Munroe. 


882  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

Science  is  nothing  but  trained  and  organized  common  sense,  differ- 
ing from  the  latter  only  as  a  veteran  may  differ  from  a  raw  recruit : 
and  its  methods  differ  from  those  of  common  sense  only  so  far  as  the 
guardsman's  cut  and  thrust  differ  from  the  manner  in  which  a  savage 
wields  his  club.  The  primary  power  is  the  same  in  each  case,  and 
perhaps  the  untutored  savage  has  the  more  brawny  arm  of  the  two. 
The  real  advantage  lies  in  the  point  and  polish  of  the  swordsman's 
weapon;  hi  the  trained  eye  quick  to  spy  out  the  weakness  of  the 
adversary;  in  the  ready  hand  prompt  to  follow  it  on  the  instant. 
But,  after  all,  the  sword  exercise  is  only  the  hewing  and  poking  of  the 
clubman  refined  and  developed. 

So,  the  vast  results  obtained  by  science  are  won  by  ...  no  mental 
processes,  other  than  those  which  are  practiced  by  every  one  of  us, 
in  the  humblest  and  meanest  affairs  of  life.  A  detective  policeman 
discovers  a  burglar  from  the  marks  made  by  his  shoe,  by  a  mental 
process  identical  with  that  by  which  Cuvier  restored  the  extinct  ani- 
mals of  Montmartre  from  fragments  of  their  bones.  .  .  .  Nor  does 
that  process  of  induction  and  deduction  by  which  a  lady  finding  a 
stain  of  a  peculiar  kind  upon  her  dress,  concludes  that  somebody  has 
upset  the  inkstand  thereon,  differ,  in  any  way,  in  kind,  from  that  by 
which  Adams  and  Leverrier  discovered  a  new  planet. 

The  man  of  science,  in  fact,  simply  uses  with  scrupulous  exactness 
the  methods  which  we  all,  habitually  and  at  every  moment,  use 
carelessly;  and  the  man  of  business  must  as  much  avail  himself  of 
the  scientific  method  —  must  as  truly  be  a  man  of  science  —  as  the 
veriest  bookworm  of  us  all.1 

The  scientific  procedure  becomes,  as  we  shall  see,  highly 
complicated,  involving  elaborate  processes  of  observation, 
classification,  generalization,  deduction  or  development  of 
ideas,  and  testing.  But  it  remains  thinking  just  the  same, 
and  originates  in  some  problem  or  perplexity,  just  as  thinking 
does  in  ordinary  life. 

Science  and  common  sense.  It  is  profitable  to  note  in 
some  detail  the  ways  in  which  scientific  method,  in  spirit  and 
technique,  differs  from  common-sense  thinking.  It  is  more 
insistent  in  the  first  place  on  including  the  whole  range  of 
relevant  data,  of  bringing  to  Kght  all  the  facts  that  bear  on  a 

1  Huxley:  Lay  Sermons,  Addresses,  and  Reviews,  pp.  77,  78  (in  "The  Edu- 
cational Value  of  the  Natural  History  Sciences"). 


SCIENCE  AND  SCIENTIFIC  METHOD   "_  383 

given  problem.  In  common-sense  thinking  we  make,  as  we 
say,  snap  judgments;  we  jump  at  conclusions.  Anything 
plausible  is  accepted  as  evidence;  anything  heard  or  seen  is 
accepted  as  a  fact.  The  scientific  examiner  insists  on  exam- 
ining and  subjecting  to  scrutiny  the  facts  at  hand,  on  search- 
ing for  further  facts,  and  on  distinguishing  the  facts  genuinely 
significant  in  a  given  situation  from  those  that  happen  to  be 
glaring  or  conspicuous.  This  is  merely  another  way  of  saying 
that  both  accuracy  and  completeness  of  observation  are 
demanded,  accuracy  in  the  examination  of  the  facts  present, 
and  completeness  in  the  array  of  facts  bearing  on  the  question 
at  hand. 

Scientific  thinking  is  thus  primarily  inquiring  and  skeptical. 
It  queries  the  usual;  it  tries,  as  we  say,  to  penetrate  beneath 
the  surface.  Common  sense,  for  example,  gives  suction  as  the 
explanation  of  water  rising  in  a  pump.  But  where,  as  at  a  great 
height  above  sea  level,  this  mysterious  power  of  suction  does 
not  operate,  or  when  it  is  found  that  it  does  not  raise  water 
above  thirty-two  feet,  common  sense  is  at  a  loss.  Scientific 
thinking  tries  to  analyze  the  gross  fact,  and  by  accurately  and 
completely  observing  all  the  facts  bearing  on  the  phenomenon 
endeavors  to  find  out  "what  special  conditions  are  present 
when  the  effect  occurs  "  and  absent  when  it  does  not  occur. 
Instead  of  trying  to  fit  all  unusual,  contradictory,  or  excep- 
tional facts  into  a  priori  ideas  based  on  miscellaneous  and  un- 
sifted facts,  it  starts  without  any  fixed  conclusions  before- 
hand, but  carefully  observes  all  the  facts  which  it  can  secure 
with  reference  to  a  particular  problem,  deliberately  seeking 
the  exceptional  and  unusual  as  crucial  instances.  Thus  in  a 
sociological  inquiry,  the  scientist,  instead  of  accepting  "com- 
mon-sense" judgments  (based  on  a  variety  of  miscellaneous, 
incomplete,  and  unsifted  facts)  that  certain  races  are  inferior 
or  superior,  tries,  by  specific  inquiries,  to  establish  the  facts 
of  racial  capacities  or  defects.  Instead  of  accepting  pro- 
verbial wisdom  and  popular  estimates  of  the  relative  capaci- 
ties of  men  and  women,  he  tries  by  careful  observation  and 


384  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

experiment  accurately  to  discover  all  the  facts  bearing  on 
the  question,  and  to  generalize  from  those  facts. 

Scientific  method  thus  discounts  prejudice  or  dogmatism. 
A  prejudice  is  literally  a  pre-judgment.  Common  sense  sizes 
up  the  situation  beforehand.  Instead  of  examining  a  situa- 
tion in  its  own  terms,  and  arriving  at  a  conclusion,  it  starts 
with  one.  The  so-called  hard-headed  man  of  common  sense 
knows  beforehand.  He  has  a  definite  and  stereotyped  reac- 
tion for  every  situation  with  which  he  comes  in  contact. 
These  rubber-stamp  responses,  these  unconsidered  generali- 
zations, originate  in  instinctive  desires,  or  in  preferences  ac- 
quired through  habit.  Common  sense  finds  fixed  pigeon  holes 
into  which  to  fit  all  the  variety  of  specific  circumstances  and 
conditions  which  characterize  experience.  "When  its  judg- 
ments happen  to  be  correct,  it  is  almost  as  much  a  matter  of 
good  luck  as  of  method.  .  .  .  That  potatoes  should  be  planted 
only  during  the  crescent  moon,  that  near  the  sea  people  are 
born  at  high  tide  and  die  at  low  tide,  that  a  comet  is  an 
omen  of  danger,  that  bad  luck  follows  the  cracking  of  a 
mirror,"  all  these  are  the  results  of  common-sense  observation. 
Matters  of  common  knowledge  are  thus  not  infrequently 
matters  of  common  misinformation. 

Common-sense  knowledge  is  largely  a  matter  of  uncritical 
belief.  When  there  is  absent  scientific  examination  of  the 
sources  and  grounds  of  belief,  those  judgments  and  conclu- 
sions are  likely  to  be  accepted  which  happen  to  have  wide 
social  currency  and  authority.  In  an  earlier  chapter,  it  was 
shown  how  the  mere  fact  of  an  opinion  prevailing  among  a 
large  number  of  one's  group  or  class  gives  it  great  emotional 
weight.  Where  opinions  are  not  determined  by  intelligent 
examination  and  decision,  they  are  determined  by  force  of 
habit,  early  education,  and  the  social  influences  to  which  one 
is  constantly  exposed. 

The  scientific  spirit  is  a  spirit  of  emancipated  inquiry  as 
contrasted  with  blind  acceptance  of  belief  upon  authority. 
The  phenomenal  developments  of  modern  science  began 


SCIENCE  AND  SCIENTIFIC  METHOD       385 

when  men  ceased  to  accept  authoritatively  their  beliefs  about 
man  and  nature,  and  undertook  to  examine  phenomena  in 
their  own  terms.  The  phenomenal  rise  of  modern  science  is 
coincident  with  the  collapse  of  unquestioning  faith  as  the 
leading  ingredient  of  intellectual  life. 

Common  sense  renders  men  peculiarly  insensitive  to  the 
possibilities  of  the  novel,  peculiarly  susceptible  to  the  influ- 
ence of  tradition.  It  was  common  sense  that  credited  the 
influence  of  the  position  of  the  stars  upon  men's  welfare,  the 
power  of  old  women  as  witches,  and  the  unhealthiness  of  night 
air.  It  was  common  sense  also  that  ridiculed  Fulton's  steam- 
boat, laughed  at  the  early  attempts  of  telegraphy  and  teleph- 
ony, and  dismissed  the  aeroplane  as  an  interesting  toy.  The 
characteristic  feature  of  common  sense  or  empirical  thinking 
is  its  excess  traditionalism,  its  wholesale  acceptance  of  author- 
ity,1 its  reliance  upon  precedent.  Where  beliefs  are  not  sub- 
jected to  critical  revision  and  examination,  to  the  constant 
surveillance  of  the  inquiring  intelligence,  there  will  be  no  cri- 
terion by  which  to  estimate  the  true  and  the  false,  the  impor- 
tant and  the  trivial.  All  beliefs  that  have  wide  social  sanc- 
tion, or  that  chime  in  with  immediate  sense  impressions, 
established  individual  habits,  or  social  customs  will  be  accepted 
with  the  same  indiscriminate  hospitality.  To  common  sense 
the  sun  does  appear  to  go  round  the  earth;  the  stick  does  ap- 
pear broken  in  water.  Thus  "totally  false  opinions  may 
appear  to  the  holder  of  them  to  possess  all  the  character  of 
rationally  verifiable  truth." 

The  dangers  and  falsities  of  common-sense  judgments  are 
conditioned  not  only  by  expectations  and  standards  fixed  by 
the  social  environment,  but  by  one's  own  personal  predilec- 
tions and  aversions.  Recent  developments  in  psychology 
have  made  much  of  the  fact  that  many  of  our  so-called 
reasoned  judgments  are  rationalizations,  secondary  reasons 

1  "Authority"  in  this  sense  of  social  prestige  must  be  distinguished  from 
"authority"  in  the  sense  of  scientific  authority.  The  acceptance  of  the 
authority  of  the  expert  is  the  acceptance  of  opinions  that  we  have  good  reason 
to  believe  are  the  result  of  scientific  inquiry. 


386  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

found  after  our  initial,  primary,  and  deep-seated  emotional' 
responses  have  been  made.  They  are  the  result  of  emotional 
"complexes,"  fears,  expectations,  and  desires  of  which  we  are 
not  ourselves  conscious.1  It  is  from  these  limiting  conditions 
of  personal  preference  and  social  environment  that  scientific 
method  frees  us. 

Again,  even  where  common-sense  judgments  are  not  par- 
ticularly qualified  by  such  conditions,  they  are  frequently 
based  upon  the  observation  of  purely  accidental  conjunctions 
of  circumstances.  A  sequence  once  or  twice  observed  is  taken 
as  the  basis  of  a  causal  relation.  This  gives  rise  to  what  is 
known  in  technical  logic  as  the  post  hoc  ergo  propter  hoc 
fallacy;  that  is,  the  assumption  that  because  one  thing  hap- 
pens after  another,  therefore  it  happens  because  of  it.  Many 
superstitions  probably  had  their  origin  in  such  chance  obser- 
vations, and  belief  in  them  is  strengthened  by  some  acci- 
dental confirmation.  Thus  if  a  man  walks  under  a  ladder  one 
day  and  dies  the  next,  the  believer  in  the  superstition  that 
walking  under  a  ladder  brings  fatal  results  will  find  in  this 
instance  a  clear  ratification  of  his  belief.  There  seems  to  be 

1 "  When  a  party  politician  is  called  upon  to  consider  a  new  measure,  hia 
verdict  is  largely  determined  by  certain  constant  systems  of  ideas  and  trends 
of  thought,  constituting  what  is  generally  known  as  'party  bias."  We 
should  describe  these  systems  in  our  newly  acquired  terminology  as  his 
'political  complex.'  The  complex  causes  him  to  take  up  an  attitude  toward 
the  proposed  measure  which  is  quite  independent  of  any  absolute  merits  that 
the  latter  may  possess.  If  we  argue  with  our  politician,  we  shall  find  that 
the  complex  will  reinforce  in  his  mind  those  arguments  which  support  the 
view  of  his  party,  while  it  will  infallibly  prevent  him  from  realizing  the  force 
of  the  arguments  propounded  by  the  opposite  side.  Now,  it  should  be  ob- 
served that  the  individual  himself  is  probably  quite  unaware  of  this  mechan- 
ism in  his  mind.  He  fondly  imagines  that  his  opinion  is  formed  solely  by  the 
logical  pros  and  cons  of  the  measure  before  him.  We  see,  in  fact,  that  not 
only  is  his  thinking  determined  by  a  complex  of  whose  action  he  is  uncon- 
scious, but  that  he  believes  his  thoughts  to  be  the  result  of  other  causes  which 
are  in  reality  insufficient  and  illusory.  This  latter  process  of  self-deception, 
in  which  the  individual  conceals  the  real  foundation  of  his  thought  by  a 
series  of  adventitious  props,  is  termed  'rationalization.' 

"The  two  mechanisms  which  manifest  themselves  in  our  example  of  the 
politician,  the  unconscious  origin  of  beliefs  and  actions,  and  the  subsequent 
process  of  rationalization  to  which  they  are  subjected,  are  of  fundamental 
importance  in  psychology."  (Bernard  Hart:  The  Psychology  of  Insanity, 
pp.  64-66.) 


SCIENCE  AND  SCIENTIFIC  METHOD       887 

an  inveterate  human  tendency  to  seek  for  causes,  and  by 
those  who  are  not  scientific  inquirers  causes  are  lightly 
assigned.  It  is  easiest  and  most  plausible  to  assign  as  a  cause 
an  immediately  preceding  circumstance.  Exceptional  or  con- 
tradictory circumstances  are  then  either  unnoticed  or  pared 
down  to  fit  the  belief. 

Scientific  method  does  not  depend  on  such  chance  con- 
junctions of  circumstance,  but  controls  its  observations  or 
experimentally  arranges  conditions  so  as  to  discover  what  are 
the  conditions  necessary  to  produce  given  effects,  or  what 
effects  invariably  follow  from  given  causes.  It  does  not 
accept  a  chance  conjunction  as  evidence  of  an  invariable  rela- 
tion, but  seeks,  under  regulated  conditions,  to  discover  what 
the  genuinely  invariable  relations  are.  This  method  of  con- 
trolling our  generalizations  about  the  facts  of  experience,  we 
shall  presently  examine  in  some  detail. 

Curiosity  and  scientific  inquiry.  Curiosity,  the  instinctive 
basis  of  the  desire  to  know,  is  the  basis  of  scientific  inquiry. 
Without  this  fundamental  desire,  there  could  be  no  sustaining 
motive  to  deep  and  thoroughgoing  scientific  research,  for  the- 
oretical investigations  do  not  always  give  promise  of  immedi- 
ate practical  benefits.  The  scientific  interest  is  a  develop- 
ment of  that  restless  curiosity  for  a  knowledge  of  the  world  in 
which  they  are  living  which  children  so  markedly  exhibit. 
Beginning  as  a  kind  of  miscellaneous  and  omnivorous  appe- 
tite for  facts  of  whatever  description,  it  grows  into  a  desire  to 
understand  the  unsuspected  and  hidden  relations  between 
facts,  to  penetrate  to  the  unities  discoverable  beneath  the 
mysteries  and  multiplicities  of  things. 

The  scientific  mood  is  thus  in  the  first  place  a  sheer  instinc- 
tive curiosity,  a  basic  passion  for  facts.  It  is  this  which  sus- 
tains the  scientific  worker  in  the  sometimes  long  and  dreary 
business  of  collecting  specimens,  instances,  details.  Many  of 
the  most  notable  scientific  advances,  as  Lord  Kelvin  pointed 
out,  must  be  attributed  to  the  most  protracted  and  unmiti- 
gated drudgery  in  the  collection  of  facts,  a  thoroughgoing  and 


388  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

trying  labor  in  which  the  scientific  worker  could  persist  only 
when  fortified  by  an  eager  and  insistent  curiosity.  This 
"hodman's  work"  is  the  basis  of  the  great  generalizations 
which  constitute  the  framework  of  the  modern  scientific  sys- 
tems. "The  monotonous  and  quantitative  work  of  star- 
cataloguing  has  been  continued  from  Hipparchus,  who  began 
his  work  more  than  a  century  before  Christ,  work  which  is 
continued  even  to  the  present  day.  This  work,  uninspiring 
as  it  seems,  is  yet  an  essential  basis  for  the  applications  of 
astronomy,  the  determination  of  time,  navigation,  surveying. 
Furthermore,  without  good  star  places,  we  can  have  no  the- 
ory of  the  motions  of  the  solar  system,  and  without  accurate 
catalogues  of  the  stars  we  can  know  nothing  of  the  grander 
problems  of  the  universe,  the  motion  of  our  sun  among  the 
stars,  or  of  the  stars  among  themselves." l 

Not  only  is  curiosity  a  sustaining  motive  in  the  drudgery  of 
collection  and  research  incident  and  essential  to  scientific 
generalization;  it  alone  makes  possible  that  suspense  of  judg- 
ment which  is  necessary  to  fruitful  scientific  inquiry.  This 
suspense  is,  as  we  have  already  seen,  difficult  for  most  men. 
Action  demands  immediate  decision,  and  inquiry  deliberately 
postpones  decision.  It  is  only  a  persistent  desire  to  "get  at 
the  bottom  of  the  matter"  that  will  act  as  a  check  upon  the 
demands  of  social  life  and  of  individual  impatience  which  rush 
us  to  conclusions.  In  most  men,  as  earlier  noted,  the  sharp 
edge  of  curiosity  becomes  easily  blunted.  They  are  content, 
outside  their  own  immediate  personal  interests,  "to  take 
things  for  granted."  They  glide  over  the  surfaces  of  events, 
they  cease  to  query  the  authenticity  of  facts,  or  to  examine 
their  relevance  and  their  significance,  or  to  be  concerned  about 
their  completeness.  For  an  example,  one  has  but  to  listen  to 
or  partake  in  the  average  discussion  of  any  political  or  social 
issue  of  the  present  day.  There  are  few  men  who  retain,  even 
as  far  as  middle  life,  a  genuinely  inquiring  interest  in  men  and 
affairs.  Their  curiosity  is  dulled  by  fatigue  and  the  pressure 

>  Hinks:  Astronomy,  p.  162. 


SCIENCE  AND  SCIENTIFIC  METHOD        389 

of  their  own  interests  and  preoccupations,  and  they  allow 
their  prejudices  and  formulas  to  pass  for  judgments  and  con- 
clusions. The  scientist  is  the  man  in  whom  curiosity  has 
become  a  permanent  passion,  who,  as  long  as  he  lives,  is  un- 
willing to  forego  inquiry  into  the  processes  of  Nature,  or  of 
human  relations. 

Thinking  begins  with  a  problem.  While  the  general  habit 
of  inquiry  is  developed  in  the  satisfaction  of  the  instinct  of 
curiosity,  any  particular  investigation  begins  with  a  felt 
difficulty.  By  difficulty  is  not  meant  one  of  an  imperative 
and  practical  kind,  but  any  problem  whether  theoretical  or 
practical.  For  many  men,  it  is  true,  thinking  occurs  only 
when  instinct  and  habit  are  inadequate  to  adjust  them  to 
their  environment.  Any  problem  of  daily  life  affords  an 
example.  To  borrow  an  illustration  from  Professor  Dewey: 

A  man  traveling  in  an  unfamiliar  region  comes  to  a  branching  of 
the  roads.  Having  no  sure  knowledge  to  fall  back  upon,  he  is 
brought  to  a  standstill  of  hesitation  and  suspense.  Which  road  is 
right?  And  how  shall  the  perplexity  be  resolved?  There  are  but 
two  alternatives.  He  must  either  blindly  and  arbitrarily  take  his 
course,  trusting  to  luck  for  the  outcome,  or  he  must  discover  grounds 
for  the  conclusion  that  a  given  road  is  right.1 

To  the  inquiring  mind,  purely  theoretical  difficulties  or 
discrepancies  will  provoke  thought.  To  the  astronomer  an 
unaccounted-for  perturbation  in  the  path  of  a  planet  provokes 
inquiry;  the  chemist  is  challenged  by  a  curious  unexplained 
reaction  of  two  chemical  elements,  the  biologist,  anterior  to 
the  discovery  of  micro-organisms,  by  the  putrefaction  of 
animal  tissues.  The  degree  to  which  curiosity  persists  and 
the  extent  of  training  a  man  has  had  in  a  given  field  largely 
determine  the  kind  of  situations  that  will  provoke  inquiry. 
"A  primrose  by  the  river's  brim"  may  be  simply  a  primrose 
to  one  man,  while  to  another,  a  botanist,  it  may  suggest  an 
interesting  and  complex  problem  of  classification. 

But  however  remote  and  recondite  thinking  becomes,  how- 

1  Dewey:  How  We  Think,  p.  10. 


390  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

ever  far  removed  from  immediate  practical  concerns,  it  occurs 
essentially  in  a  situation  analogous  to  the  "forked-road  situa- 
tion "  described  above.  The  situation  as  it  stands  is  confused, 
ambiguous,  uncertain.  In  a  practical  problem,  for  example, 
there  are  two  or  more  courses  of  action  open  to  us,  all  of  them 
giving  promise  as  solutions  of  our  difficulties.  We  aim  through 
reflection  to  reduce  the  uncertainty,  to  clarify  the  situation, 
to  discover  more  clearly  the  consequences  of  the  various 
alternatives  which  suggest  themselves  to  us.  When  action  is 
unimpeded,  suggestions  flow  on  just  as  they  arise  in  our 
minds.  This  is  illustrated  best  in  the  reveries  of  a  day-dream 
when  casual  and  disconnected  fancies  follow  each  other  in 
random  and  uncontrolled  succession.  But  when  there  is  a 
problem  to  be  settled,  an  ambiguity  to  be  resolved,  sugges- 
tions are  held  in  check  and  controlled  with  reference  to  the 
end  we  have  in  view;  each  suggestion  is  estimated  with  regard 
to  its  relevance  to  the  problem  in  hand.  Every  idea  that 
arises  is,  so  to  speak,  queried:  "Is  it  or  is  it  not  a  solution  to 
our  present  difficulty?  " 

We  are  indebted  to  Professor  Dewey,  for  an  analysis  of  the 
thought  process.  Every  instance  of  thinking  reveals  five 
steps: 

(1)  A  felt  difficulty,  (2)  its  location  and  definition,  (3)  sug- 
gestions of  possible  solutions,  (4)  development  by  reasoning 
of  the  bearings  of  the  most  promising  suggestion,  (5)  further 
observation  or  experiment  leading  to  its  acceptance  or  rejec- 
tion, that  is  a  conclusion  either  of  belief  or  disbelief. 

When  instinct  or  habit  suffices  to  adjust  us  to  our  environ- 
ment, action  runs  along  smoothly,  freely,  uninterruptedly.  In 
consequence  the  provocation  to  thinking  may  at  first  be  a 
mere  vague  shock  or  disturbance.  We  are,  as  it  were,  in 
trouble  without  knowing  precisely  what  the  trouble  is.  We 
must  carefully  inquire  into  the  nature  of  the  problem  before 
undertaking  a  solution.  To  take  a  simple  instance,  an  auto- 
mobile may  suddenly  stop.  We  know  there  is  a  difficulty, 
but  whether  it  is  a  difficulty  with  the  transmission,  with  the 


SCIENCE  AND  SCIENTIFIC  METHOD       391 

carburetor,  or  with  the  supply  of  gasoline,  we  cannot  at  first 
tell.  Before  we  do  anything  else  in  solving  our  problem,  we 
find  out  literally  and  precisely  what  the  trouble  is.  To  take  a 
different  situation,  a  doctor  does  not  undertake  to  prescribe 
for  a  patient  until  he  has  diagnosed  the  difficulty,  found  out 
precisely  what  the  features  of  the  problem  are. 

The  second  step  after  the  situation  has  been  examined  and 
its  precise  elements  defined,  is  suggestion.  That  is,  we  con- 
sider the  various  possibilities  which  suggest  themselves  as  solu- 
tions to  our  problem.  There  may  be  several  ways  of  tempo- 
rarily repairing  our  engine;  the  doctor  may  think  of  two  or 
three  possible  treatments  for  a  disease.  In  one  sense,  sugges- 
tion is  uncontrollable.  The  kind  of  suggestions  that  occur  to 
an  individual  depend  on  his  "genius  or  temperament,"  on  his 
past  experiences,  on  his  hopes  or  fears  or  expectations  when 
that  particular  situation  occurs.  We  can,  however,  through 
the  methods  of  science,  control  suggestions  indirectly.  We 
can  do  this,  in  the  first  place,  by  reexamining  the  facts  which 
give  rise  to  suggestion.  If  upon  close  examination,  the  facts 
appear  differently  from  what  they  did  at  first,  we  will  derive 
different  inferences  from  them.  Different  suggestions  will 
arise  from  the  facts  A,  B,  C,  than  from  the  facts  A',  B',  C'. 
Again  we  can  regulate  the  conditions  under  which  credence  is 
given  to  the  various  suggestions  that  arise.  These  sugges- 
tions are  entertained  merely  as  tentative,  and  are  not  accepted 
until  experimentally  verified.  "The  suggested  conclusion  as 
only  tentatively  entertained  constitutes  an  idea." 

After  the  variety  of  suggestions  that  proffer  themselves  as 
solutions  to  a  problem  have  been  considered,  the  third  step  is 
the  logical  development  of  the  idea  or  suggestion  that  gives 
most  promise  of  solving  the  difficulty.  That  is,  even  before 
further  facts  are  sought,  the  idea  that  gives  promise  of  being  a 
solution  is  followed  out  to  its  logical  consequences.  Thus,  for 
example,  astronomers  were  for  a  long  time  puzzled  by  unex- 
plained perturbations  in  the  path  of  the  planet  Uranus.  The 
suggestion  occurred  that  an  unseen  planet  was  deflecting  it 


392  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

from  the  path  it  should,  from  observation  and  calculation, 
be  following.  If  this  were  the  case,  from  the  amount  of  deflec- 
tion it  was  mathematically  calculated,  prior  to  any  further 
observation,  that  the  supposed  planet  should  appear  at  a  cer- 
tain point  in  space.  It  was  by  this  deductive  elaboration  that 
the  planet  Neptune  was  discovered.  It  was  figured  out  deduc- 
tively that  a  planet  deflecting  the  path  of  the  planet  Uranus 
by  just  so-and-so  much  should  be  found  at  just  such  and  such 
a  particular  point  in  the  heavens.  When  the  telescopes  were 
turned  in  that  direction,  the  planet  Neptune  was  discovered 
at  precisely  the  point  deductively  forecast. 

The  elaboration  of  an  idea  through  reasoning  it  out  may 
sometimes  lead  to  its  rejection.  But  in  thinking  out  its 
details  we  may  for  the  first  time  note  its  appositeness  to  the 
solution  of  the  problem  in  hand.  The  gross  suggestion  may 
seem  wild  and  absurd,  but  when  its  bearings  and  conse- 
quences are  logically  developed  there  may  be  some  item  in 
the  development  which  dovetails  into  the  problem  as  its 
solution.  William  James  gives  as  the  outstanding  feature  of 
reasoning,  "sagacity,  or  the  perception  of  the  essence."  *  By 
this  he  meant  the  ability  to  single  out  of  a  complex  situation 
or  idea  the  significant  or  key  feature.  It  is  only  by  a  logical 
development  of  a  suggested  solution  to  a  problem  that  it  is 
possible  to  hit  upon  the  essence  of  the  matter  for  a  particular 
situation,  to  single  out  of  a  gross  total  situation,  the  key  to 
the  phenomenon.  "In  reasoning,  A  may  suggest  B;  but  B, 
instead  of  being  an  idea  which  is  simply  obeyed  by  us,  is  an 
idea  which  suggests  the  distinct  additional  idea  C.  And 
where  the  tram  of  suggestion  is  one  of  reasoning  distinctively 
so-called  as  contrasted  with  mere  'revery,'  .  .  .  the  ideas  bear 
certain  inward  relations  to  each  other  which  we  must  care- 
fully examine.  The  result  C  yielded  by  a  true  act  of  reason- 
ing is  apt  to  be  a  thing  voluntarily  sought,  such  as  the  means 
to  a  proposed  end,  the  ground  for  an  observed  effect,  or  the 
effect  of  an  assumed  cause." 2  Thus  what  at  first  sight  might 

1  James:  Psychology,  vol.  n,  p.  343.  » Ibid.,  p.  329. 


SCIENCE  AND  SCIENTIFIC  METHOD       893 

seem  a  fantastic  suggestion  may,  when  its  bearings  are  logi- 
cally followed  out,  be  seen  in  one  of  its  aspects  to  be  the  key 
to  the  solution  of  a  problem.  To  primitive  man  it  might  have 
seemed  absurd  to  suggest  that  flowing  water  might  be  used 
as  power;  to  the  man  in  Franklin's  day  that  the  same  force 
that  was  exhibited  in  the  lightning  might  be  used  in  trans- 
portation and  in  lighting  houses.1 

But  no  thinking  is  conclusive  until  after  the  experimental 
certification  and  warranting  of  the  idea  which  has  been  held 
in  mind  as  the  solution  of  the  problem.  By  deduction,  by 
logical  elaboration  of  an  idea,  we  find  its  adoption  involves 
certain  consequences.  Some  of  the  logical  consequences 
which  follow  from  an  idea  may  indicate  that  it  is  a  plausible 
solution  of  our  problem.  But  no  matter  how  plausible  a 
suggestion  looks,  until  it  is  verified  by  observation  or  experi- 
ment the  thinking  process  is  not  concluded,  is  not  finished, 
as  we  say,  conclusively.  When  an  idea  or  a  suggestion  has 
been  developed,  and  seen  to  involve  —  as  an  idea  —  certain 
inevitable  logical  consequences,  the  idea  must  be  tested  by 
further  observation  and  experiment.  Suggestions  arise  from 
facts  and  must  be  tested  by  them.  Until  the  suggestion  is 
verified,  it  remains  merely  a  suggestion,  a  theory,  a  hypothe- 
sis, an  idea.  It  is  only  when  the  consequences  implied  logi- 

1  James  gives  an  illuminating  passage  on  the  importance  of  the  effective- 
ness of  reasoning  things  out:  "I  have  a  student's  lamp,  of  which  the  flame 
vibrates  most  unpleasantly  unless  the  collar  which  bears  the  chimney  be 
raised  about  a  sixteenth  of  an  inch.  I  learned  the  remedy  after  much  tor- 
ment by  accident,  and  now  always  keep  the  collar  up  with  a  small  wedge. 
But  my  procedure  is  a  mere  association  of  two  totals,  diseased  object  and 
remedy.  One  learned  in  pneumatics  could  have  named  the  cause  of  the  dis- 
ease, and  thence  inferred  the  remedy  immediately.  By  many  measurements 
of  triangles,  one  might  find  their  area  always  equal  to  their  height  multiplied 
by  half  their  base,  and  one  might  formulate  an  empirical  law  to  that  effect. 
But  a  reasoner  saves  himself  all  this  trouble,  by  seeing  that  it  is  the  essence 
(pro  hoc  vice)  of  a  triangle  to  be  the  half  of  a  parallelogram  whose  area  is  the 
height  into  the  entire  base.  To  see  this  he  must  invent  additional  lines;  and 
the  geometer  must  often  draw  such  to  get  at  the  essential  properties  he  may 
require  in  a  figure.  The  essence  consists  in  some  relation  of  the  figure  to  the 
new  lines,  a  relation  not  obvious  at  all  until  they  are  put  in.  The  geometer's 
sagacity  lies  in  the  invention  of  the  new  lines.''  (Psychology,  vol.  n,  pp.  339- 
40.) 


394  THE  CAEEER  OF  REASON 

cally  in  the  very  idea  itself  are  found  in  the  actual  situation 
that  the  idea  is  accepted  as  a  solution  to  the  problem.  Some- 
times the  suggestion  may  be  verified  by  observation;  some- 
times conditions  must  be  deliberately  arranged  for  testing  its 
adequacy.  In  either  case  it  is  only  when  the  facts  of  the  situ- 
ation correspond  to  the  conditions  theoretically  involved  that 
the  tentative  idea  is  accepted  as  a  conclusion. 

Thus  a  treatment  that  is  regarded  by  the  doctor  as  a  pos- 
sible cure  can  be  called  an  actual  cure  only  when  its  benef- 
icent results  are  observed.  The  supposition  about  the  planet 
Neptune  is  only  verified  when  the  planet  is  actually  observed 
in  the  heavens.  Thinking  ends,  as  it  begins,  in  observation. 
At  the  beginning  the  facts  are  carefully  examined  to  see  pre- 
cisely where  the  difficulty  lies;  at  the  end  they  are  again 
examined  to  see  whether  an  idea,  an  entertained  hypothesis, 
a  suggested  solution,  can  be  verified  in  actual  observable 
results. 

The  quality  of  thinking —  Suggestion.  The  quality  of  think- 
ing varies,  first,  with  the  fertility  of  suggestion  of  the  analyzing 
mind.  Ease  of  suggestion,  in  the  first  place,  depends  on  in- 
nate individual  differences.  There  are  some  minds  so  con- 
stituted that  every  fact  provokes  a  multitude  of  suggestions. 
Readiness  in  responding  with  "ideas"  to  any  experience  is 
dependent  primarily  on  initial  differences  in  resilience  and 
responsiveness.  But  differences  in  training  and  past  experi- 
ence are  also  contributory.  A  man  who  has  much  experience 
in  a  given  field,  say  in  automobile  repairing,  will,  given  a 
difficulty,  not  only  think  of  more  suggestions,  but  think  more 
rapidly  in  that  field. 

Again  persons  differ  in  range  or  number  of  suggestions  that 
occur.  The  quality  of  the  thinking  process  and  of  the  results 
it  produces  depends,  in  part,  on  the  variety  of  suggestions  which 
occur  to  an  individual  in  the  solution  of  a  given  problem.  If 
too  few  suggestions  occur  one  may  fail  to  hit  upon  any  prom- 
ising solution.  If  too  many  suggestions  occur  one  may  be 
too  confused  to  arrive  at  any  conclusion  at  all.  Whether  an 


SCIENCE  AND  SCIENTIFIC  METHOD       395 

indivic^ual  has  few  or  many  suggestions  depends  largely  on 
native  differences.  It  depends,  also,  however  in  part,  on 
acquaintance  with  a  given  field.  And  the  fertility  of  sugges- 
tions may  be  increased  by  a  careful  survey  and  re-survey  of 
the  facts  at  hand,  and  by  the  deliberate  searching-out  of  fur- 
ther facts  from  which  further  suggestions  may  be  derived. 
Suggestions  differ,  finally,  in  regard  to  depth  or  significance; 
by  nature  and  by  training,  individuals  produce  ideas  of  vary- 
ing degrees  of  significance  in  the  solution  of  problems.  Ease 
and  versatility  of  suggestion  not  infrequently  connote  super- 
ficiality; to  make  profound  and  far-reaching  suggestions  takes 
time. 

It  is  further  requisite,  as  already  pointed  out,  that  the  ana- 
lyzing mind  be  free  from  prejudice.  Thinking  is  continually 
qualified,  as  we  have  seen,  by  preferences  and  aversions. 
Every  prejudice,  every  a  priori  belief  we  have,  literally  pre- 
judges the  inquiry.  Whenever  we  are  moved  by  a  "pre- 
dominant passion,"  we  cannot  survey  the  facts  impartially. 
It  is  hard  to  think  clearly  and  justly  about  people  whom  we 
love  or  hate,  or  to  estimate  with  precision  the  morality  of 
actions  toward  which  we  are  moved  by  very  strong  impulses. 
It  is  only  the  mind  that  remains  resolutely  emancipated  from 
the  compulsions  of  habit  and  circumstances,  that  persists  in 
surveying  facts  as  they  are,  letting  the  chips,  so  to  speak,  fall 
where  they  will,  that  can  be  really  effective  in  thinking.  In 
the  physical  sciences  it  is  comparatively  easy  to  start  with  no 
prejudices;  in  social  inquiries  where  we  are  bound  by  tradi- 
tions, loyalties,  and  antipathies  it  is  much  more  difficult. 

Not  the  least  essential  to  effective  thinking  is  persistence 
and  thoroughness  of  investigation.  Since  we  are  primarily 
creatures  of  action,  we  crave  definiteness  and  immediacy  of 
decision,  and  there  is  a  constant  temptation  to  rush  to  a  con- 
clusion. In  order  to  attain  genuine  completeness  of  the  facts 
and  certainty  and  accuracy  as  to  what  the  facts  are,  long,  un- 
wavering persistence  is  required.  There  must  be  persistence, 
moreover,  not  merely  because  of  the  length  of  tune  and  the 


396  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

amount  of  labor  involved  in  the  collection  of  data;  steadiness 
is  required  in  holding  in  mind  the  end  or  purpose  of  the  inves- 
tigation. Too  often  in  inquiry  into  the  facts  of  human  rela- 
tions, the  specific  problem  is  forgotten  and  facts  are  collected 
with  an  indiscriminate  omnivorousness.  There  is  in  such 
cases  plodding,  but  of  an  unenlightened  and  fruitless  sort. 
Not  only  persistency  but  consistency  is  required.  The  inves- 
tigation must  be  steadily  carried  on  with  persistent  and  un- 
wavering reference  to  the  specific  business  in  hand. 

Effective  thinking  depends  further  on  familiarity  with  the 
field  of  facts  under  investigation.  Even  the  most  ready  and 
fertile  of  minds,  the  most  orderly  habits  of  thought,  are  at  a 
loss  without  a  store  of  material;  that  is,  facts  from  which 
suggestions  may  arise.  And  this  store  of  materials  can  only 
be  attained  through  a  thoroughgoing  acquaintance  with  the 
particular  field  of  inquiry.  Thinking  aims  to  explain  the 
relations  between  facts,  and  an  intimate  acquaintance  with 
facts  involved  in  a  given  situation  is  prerequisite  to  any  gen- 
eralization whatsoever. 

While  the  native  fertility  of  given  minds  cannot  be  con- 
trolled, suggestions  can  be  controlled  indirectly.  Suggestions 
arise  from  the  data  at  hand,  but  the  data  themselves  change 
under  more  precise  conditions  of  observation,  and  the  sugges- 
tions that  arise  from  them  change  in  consequence.  The 
whole  elaborate  apparatus  of  science,  its  instruments  of  pre- 
cision, are  designed  to  yield  an  exact  determination  of  the 
precise  nature  of  the  data  at  hand.  The  scientist  attempts  to 
prevent  "reading-in"  of  meanings.  "Reading-in"  of  mean- 
ings may  be  due  to  various  causes.  In  the  first  place  there 
may  be  purely  physical  causes:  a  dim  light,  a  fog,  a  cracked 
window-pane  are  examples  of  how  ordinary  observation  may 
lead  us  astray.  Again,  physiological  causes  may  be  at  work 
to  distort  sensations:  imperfections  in  the  sense  organs,  fa- 
tigue, illness,  and  the  like  are  examples.  But  not  least  among 
the  causes  of  error  must  be  set  psychological  causes.  That  is, 
we  read  facts  differently  in  the  light  of  what  we  fear  or  hope, 


SCIENCE  AND  SCIENTIFIC  METHOD       397 

like  or  dislike,  expect  or  recall.  We  see  things  the  way  we 
want  them  to  be,  or  the  way  previous  experience  has  taught 
us  to  expect  them  to  be. 

Both  physiological  and  psychological  causes  maybe  checked 
up  by  instruments.  Indeed,  one  of  the  chief  utilities  of  instru- 
ments of  precision  is  that  they  do  serve  to  check  up  personal 
error.  They  prevent  scientific  inquirers  from  reading  in 
meanings  to  which  they  are  led  by  hope,  fear,  preference,  or 
aversion.  They  help  us  to  see  the  facts  as  they  are,  not  as  for 
various  social  and  personal  reasons  we  want  or  expect  them 
to  be.  They  help  to  give  precise  and  permanent  impressions 
which  are  not  dependent  for  their  discovery  or  for  their  preser- 
vation on  the  precariousnessof  human  observation  or  memory. 

Classification.  Next  only  hi  importance  to  accurate  obser- 
vation of  the  facts  is  their  classification.  Objects  of  experi- 
ence as  they  come  to  us  through  the  senses  appear  in  a  se- 
quence which  is  random  and  chaotic.  But  in  order  to  deal 
effectively  with  our  experience  we  must  arrange  facts  accord- 
ing to  their  likenesses  and  differences.  Whenever  we  dis- 
cover certain  striking  similarities  between  facts,  we  classify 
them,  place  them  in  a  class,  knowing  that  what  will  apply  to 
one  will  apply  to  all.  Some  logicians  go  so  far  as  to  say  that 
science  cannot  go  any  further  than  accurate  classification. 
In  the  words  of  Poincare": 

The  most  interesting  facts  are  those  which  may  serve  many  times; 
these  are  the  facts  which  have  a  chance  of  coming  up  again.  We 
have  been  so  fortunate  as  to  have  been  born  in  a  world  where  there 
are  such.  Suppose  that  instead  of  sixty  chemical  elements  there 
were  sixty  milliards  of  them,  that  they  were  not  some  common,  the 
others  rare,  but  that  they  were  equally  distributed.  Then,  every 
time  we  picked  up  a  new  pebble  there  would  be  great  probability  of 
its  being  formed  of  some  unknown  substance;  all  that  we  knew  of 
other  pebbles  would  be  worthless  for  it;  before  each  new  object  we 
should  be  as  the  new-born  babe;  like  it  we  could  only  obey  our  ca- 
prices or  our  needs.  Biologists  would  be  just  as  much  at  a  loss  if 
there  were  only  individuals  and  no  species,  and  if  heredity  did  not 
make  sons  like  their  fathers.1 

1  Poincarg:  Foundations  of  Science,  p.  303. 


398  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

The  aim  of  classification  in  science  is  grouping  in  such  a  way 
as  to  make  manifest  at  once  similarities  in  the  behavior  of 
objects.  That  characteristic  is  selected  as  a  basis  of  classi- 
fication with  which  is  correlated  the  greatest  number  of  other 
characteristics  belonging  to  the  facts  in  question.  It  would 
be  possible  to  classify  all  living  things  according  to  color,  but 
such  a  classification  would  be  destitute  of  scientific  value. 
Biology  offers  some  interesting  examples  of  how  an  illuminat- 
ing classification  may  be  made  on  the  basis  of  a  single  charac- 
teristic. It  has  been  found,  for  example,  that  the  differences 
or  resemblances  of  animals  are  correlated  with  corresponding 
differences  or  resemblances  in  their  teeth.  In  general,  the 
function  of  classification  may  be  summarized  in  Huxley's 
definition  as  modified  by  Jevons: 

By  the  classification  of  any  series  of  objects  is  meant  the  actual 
or  ideal  arrangement  together  of  those  things  which  are  like  and  the 
separation  of  those  things  which  are  unlike,  the  purpose  of  the 
arrangement  being,  primarily,  to  disclose  the  correlations  or  laws  of 
union  of  properties  and  circumstances,  and,  secondarily,  to  facilitate 
the  operations  of  the  mind  in  clearly  conceiving  and  retaining  in 
memory  the  characters  of  the  object  in  question. 

It  should  be  noted  that  the  object  of  classification  is  not 
simply  to  indicate  similarities  but  to  indicate  distinctions  or 
differences.  In  scientific  inquiry,  differences  are  as  crucial  hi 
the  forming  of  generalizations  as  similarities.  It  is  only  pos- 
sible to  classify  a  given  fact  under  a  scientific  generalization 
when  the  given  fact  is  set  off  from  other  facts,  when  it  is  seen 
to  be  the  result  of  certain  special  conditions. 

If  a  man  infers  from  a  single  sample  of  grain  as  to  the  grade  of 
wheat  of  the  car  as  a  whole,  it  is  induction,  and  under  certain  circum- 
stances, a  sound  induction;  other  cases  are  resorted  to  simply  for  the 
sake  of  rendering  that  induction  more  guarded  and  correct.  In  the 
case  of  the  various  samples  of  grain,  it  is  the  fact  that  the  samples 
are  unlike,  at  least  in  the  part  of  the  carload  from  which  they  are 
taken,  that  is  important.  Were  it  not  for  this  unlikeness,  their  like- 
ness in  quality  would  be  of  no  avail  in  assisting  inference.1 

» Dewey:  How  We  Think,  pp.  89-90. 


SCIENCE  AND  SCIENTIFIC  METHOD       399 

Experimental  variation  of  conditions.  In  forming  our  gen- 
eralizations from  the  observation  of  situations  as  they  occur 
in  Nature,  we  are  at  a  disadvantage.  If  we  observe  cases 
just  as  we  find  them,  there  is  much  present  that  is  irrelevant 
to  our  problem;  much  that  is  of  genuine  importance  in  its 
solution  is  hidden  or  obscure.  In  experimental  investigation 
we  are,  in  the  words  of  Sir  John  Herschel,  "active  observers " ; 
we  deliberately  invent  crucial  or  test  cases.  That  is,  we  de- 
liberately arrange  conditions  so  that  every  factor  is  definitely 
known  and  recognized.  We  then  introduce  into  this  set  of 
completely  known  conditions  one  change,  one  new  circum- 
stance, and  observe  its  effect.  In  Mill's  phrase,  we  "take  a 
phenomenon  home  with  us,"  and  watch  its  behavior.  Mill 
states  clearly  the  outstanding  advantage  of  experimentation 
over  observation: 

When  we  can  produce  a  phenomenon  artificially,  we  can  take  it,  as 
it  were,  home  with  us,  and  observe  it  in  the  midst  of  circumstances 
with  which  in  all  other  respects  we  are  accurately  acquainted.  If 
we  desire  to  know  what  are  the  effects  of  the  cause  A,  and  are  able  to 
produce  A  by  means  at  our  disposal,  we  can  generally  determine  at 
our  own  discretion  .  .  .  the  whole, of  the  circumstances  which  shall 
be  present  along  with  it;  and  thus,  knowing  exactly  the  simultaneous 
state  of  everything  else  which  is  within  the  reach  of  A' a  influence, 
we  have  only  to  observe  what  alteration  is  made  in  that  state  by  the 
presence  of  A. 

For  example,  by  the  electric  machine  we  can  produce,  in  the  midst 
of  known  circumstances,  the  phenomena  which  Nature  exhibits  on 
a  grander  scale  in  the  form  of  lightning  and  thunder.  Now  let  any 
one  consider  what  amount  of  knowledge  of  the  effects  and  laws  of 
electric  agency  mankind  could  have  obtained  from  the  mere  observa- 
tion of  thunderstorms,  and  compare  it  with  that  which  they  have 
gained,  and  may  expect  to  gain,  from  electrical  and  galvanic  experi- 
ments. .  .  . 

When  we  have  succeeded  in  isolating  the  phenomenon  which  is 
the  subject  of  inquiry,  by  placing  it  among  known  circumstances, 
we  may  produce  further  variations  of  circumstances  to  any  extent, 
and  of  such  kinds  as  we  think  best  calculated  to  bring  the  laws  of  the 
phenomenon  into  a  clear  light.  By  introducing  one  well-defined 
circumstance  after  another  into  the  experiment,  we  obtain  assurance 


400  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

of  the  manner  in  which  the  phenomenon  behaves  under  an  indefinite 
variety  of  possible  circumstances.  Thus,  chemists,  after  having 
obtained  some  newly  discovered  substance  in  a  pure  state,  .  .  .  intro- 
duce various  other  substances,  one  by  one,  to  ascertain  whether  it 
will  combine  with  them,  or  decompose  them,  and  with  wh^t  result; 
and  also  apply  heat  or  electricity  or  pressure,  to  discover  what  will 
happen  to  the  substance  under  each  of  these  circumstances.1 

Through  experiment,  we  are  thus  enabled  to  observe  the 
relation  of  specific  elements  in  a  situation.  We  are,  further- 
more, enabled  to  observe  phenomena  which  are  so  rare  in  oc- 
currence that  it  is  impossible  to  form  generalizations  from 
them  or  improbable  that  we  should  even  notice  them:  "We 
might  have  to  wait  years  or  centuries  to  meet  accidentally 
with  facts  which  we  can  readily  produce  at  any  moment  in  a 
laboratory;  and  it  is  probable  that  many  of  the  chemical  sub- 
stances now  known,  and  many  excessively  useful  products, 
would  never  have  been  discovered  at  all,  by  waiting  till  Na- 
ture presented  them  spontaneously  to  our  observation."  And 
phenomena,  such  as  that  of  electricity,  which  can  only  be 
understood  when  the  conditions  of  their  occurrence  are  va- 
ried, are  presented  to  us  in  Nature  most  frequently  in  a 
fixed  and  invariable  form. 

Generalizations,  their  elaboration  and  testing.  So  far 
we  have  been  concerned  with  the  steps  in  the  control  of  sug- 
gestion, the  reexamination  of  the  facts  so  that  significant 
suggestions  may  be  derived,  and  the  elimination  of  the  sig- 
nificant from  the  insignificant  in  the  elements  of  the  situation 
as  it  first  confronts  us.  In  logically  elaborating  a  suggestion, 
as  we  have  already  seen,  we  trace  out  the  bearings  of  a  given 
situation.  We  expand  it;  we  see  what  it  implies,  what  it 
means.  Thus,  if  we  came,  for  example,  to  a  meeting  that 
had  been  scheduled,  and  found  no  one  present,  we  might 
have  several  solutions  arise  in  our  minds.  The  meeting,  we 
might  suppose,  had  been  transferred  to  another  room.  If 
that  were  the  case,  there  would  probably  be  some  notice 
posted.  In  all  cases  of  deductive  elaboration,  we  go  through 

1  Mill;  Logic  (London,  1872),  vol.  I,  pp.  441-42. 


LIBRARY 

•TATE  TEACHERS  COLLBOB 
•  ANTA    BARBARA.    CALIFORNIA 


SCIENCE  AND  SCIENTIFIC  METHOD..    401 


what  might  be  called  the  If-Then  process.  If  such-and-such  is 
the  case,  then  such-and-such  will  follow.  We  can  then  verify 
our  suggested  solution  to  a  problem,  by  going  back  to  the 
facts,  to  see  whether  they  correspond  with  the  implications 
of  our  suggestion.  We  may,  to  take  another  example,  think 
that  a  man  who  enters  our  office  is  an  insurance  agent,  or  a 
book  solicitor  who  had  said  he  would  call  upon  us  at  a  definite 
date.  If  such  is  the  case,  he  will  say  such-and-such  things. 
If  he  does  say  them,  then  our  suggestion  is  seen  to  be  correct. 
The  advantages  of  developing  a  suggestion  include  the  fact 
that  some  link  in  the  logical  chain  may  bear  a  more  obvious 
relation  to  our  problem  than  did  the  undeveloped  suggestion 
itself. 

The  systematic  sciences  consist  of  such  sets  of  principles 
so  related  that  any  single  term  implies  certain  others,  which 
imply  certain  others  and  so  on  ad  infinitum. 

After  the  facts  have  been  elaborated,  the  generalization, 
however  plausible  it  may  seem,  must  be  subjected  to  experi- 
mental corroboration.  That  is,  if  a  suggestion  is  found 
through  local  elaboration  to  mean  A,  B,  C,  then  the  situation 
must  be  reexamined  to  see  if  the  facts  to  be  found  tally  with 
the  facts  deduced.  In  the  case  cited,  the  suggestion  that  the 
man  who  entered  the  room  was  the  insurance  agent  we  ex- 
pected would  be  verified  if  he  immediately  broached  the  sub- 
ject and  the  fact,  say,  of  a  previous  conversation.  In  the  case 
of  disease,  if  the  illness  is  typhoid,  we  shall  find  certain  specific 
conditions  in  the  patient.  If  these  are  found,  the  suggestion 
of  typhoid  is  verified. 

The  reliability  of  generalizations  made  by  this  scientific 
procedure  varies  according  to  several  factors.  It  varies,  hi 
the  first  place,  according  to  the  correspondence  of  the  pre- 
dictions made  on  the  basis  of  the  generalization,  with  subse- 
quent events.  The  reason  we  say  the  law  of  gravitation  holds 
true  is  because  in  every  instance  where  observations  or  ex- 
periments have  been  made,  the  results  have  tallied  precisely 
with  expectations  based  upon  the  generalization.  We  can,  to 


402  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

a  certain  extent,  determine  the  reliability  of  a  generalization 
before  comparing  our  predictions  with  subsequent  events. 
If  a  generalization  made  contradicts  laws  that  have  been 
established  in  so  many  instances  that  they  are  practically  be- 
yond peradventure,  it  is  suspect.  A  law,  for  example,  that 
should  be  an  exception  to  the  laws  of  motion  or  gravitation, 
is  a  priori  dubious. 

If  an  induction  conflicts  with  stronger  inductions,  or  with  conclu- 
sions capable  of  being  correctly  deduced  from  them,  then,  unless  on 
reconsideration  it  should  appear  that  some  of  the  stronger  inductions 
have  been  expressed  with  greater  universality  than  their  evidence  war- 
rants, the  weaker  one  must  give  way.  The  opinion  so  long  preva- 
lent that  a  comet,  or  any  other  unusual  appearance  in  the  heavenly 
regions,  was  the  precursor  of  calamities  to  mankind,  or  to  those  at 
least  who  witnessed  it;  the  belief  in  the  veracity  of  the  oracles  of 
Delphi  or  Dodona;  the  reliance  on  astrology,  or  on  the  weather 
prophecies  in  almanacs,  were  doubtless  inductions  supposed  to  be 
grounded  on  experience.  .  .  .  What  has  really  put  an  end  to  these 
insufficient  inductions  is  their  inconsistency  with  the  stronger  induc- 
tions subsequently  obtained  by  scientific  inquiry,  respecting  the 
causes  on  which  terrestrial  events  really  depend.1 

The  quantitative  basis  of  scientific  procedure.  Science  is 
science,  some  scientists  insist,  in  so  far  as  it  is  mathematical. 
That  is,  in  the  precise  determination  of  facts,  and  in  their 
repetition  with  a  view  to  their  exact  determination,  quanti- 
ties must  be  known.  The  sciences  have  developed  in  exact- 
ness, in  so  far  as  they  have  succeeded  in  expressing  their 
formulations  in  numerical  terms.  The  physical  sciences,  such 
as  physics  and  chemistry,  which  have  been  able  to  frame  their 
generalizations  from  precise  quantities,  have  been  immeasur- 
ably more  certain  and  secure  than  such  sciences  as  psychology 
and  sociology,  where  the  measurement  of  exact  quantities  is 
more  difficult  and  rare.  Jevons  writes  in  his  Principles  oj 
Science : 

As  physical  science  advances,  it  becomes  more  and  more  accurately 
quantitative.  Questions  of  simple  logical  fact  resolve  themselves 

»  Mill:  Logic  (London,  1872),  vol.  i,  pp.  370-71. 


SCIENCE  AND  SCIENTIFIC  METHOD        403 

after  a  while  into  questions"of  degree,  time,  distance,  or  weight. 
Forces  hardly  suspected  to  exist  by  one  generation  are  clearly  recog- 
nized by  the  next,  and  precisely  measured  by  the  third  generation. l 

The  history  of  science  exhibits  a  constant  progress  from 
rude  guesses  to  precise  measurement  of  quantities.  In  the 
earliest  history  of  astronomy  there  were  attempts  at  quanti- 
tative determinations,  very  crude,  of  course,  in  comparison 
with  the  exactness  of  present-day  scientific  methods. 

Every  branch  of  knowledge  commences  with  quantitative  notions 
of  a  very  rude  character.  After  we  have  far  progressed,  it  is  often 
amusing  to  look  back  into  the  infancy  of  the  science,  and  contrast 
present  with  past  methods.  At  Greenwich  Observatory  in  the  pres- 
ent day,  the  hundredth  part  of  a  second  is  not  thought  an  inconsider- 
able portion  of  time.  The  ancient  Chaldseans  recorded  an  eclipse  to 
the  nearest  hour,  and  the  early  Alexandrian  astronomers  thought  it 
superfluous  to  distinguish  between  the  edge  and  center  of  the  sun. 
By  the  introduction  of  the  astrolabe,  Ptolemy,  and  the  later  Alex- 
andrian astronomers  could  determine  the  places  of  the  heavenly 
bodies  within  about  ten  minutes  of  arc.  Little  progress  then  ensued 
for  thirteen  centuries,  until  Tycho  Brahe  made  the  first  great  step 
toward  accuracy,  not  only  by  employing  better  instruments,  but 
even  more  by  ceasing  to  regard  an  instrument  as  correct.  ...  He 
also  took  notice  of  the  effects  of  atmospheric  refraction,  and  suc- 
ceeded in  attaining  an  accuracy  often  sixty  times  as  great  as  that  of 
Ptolemy.  Yet  Tycho  and  Hevelius  often  erred  several  minutes  in 
the  determination  of  a  star's  place,  and  it  was  a  great  achievement  of 
Roemer  and  Flamsteed  to  reduce  this  error  to  seconds.  Bradley,  the 
modem  Hipparchus,  carried  on  the  improvement,  his  errors  in  right 
ascension,  according  to  Bessel,  being  under  one  second  of  time,  and 
those  of  declination  under  four  seconds  of  arc.  In  the  present  day 
the  average  error  of  a  single  observation  is  probably  reduced  to  the 
hah'  or  the  quarter  of  what  it  was  in  Bradley 's  time;  and  further 
extreme  accuracy  is  attained  by  the  multiplication  of  observations, 
and  their  skilf  ul  combination  according  to  the  theory  of  error.  Some 
of  the  more  important  constants  .  .  .  have  been  determined  within 
a  tenth  part  of  a  second  of  space.2 

The  precise  measurement  of  quantities  is  important  because 
we  can,  in  the  first  place,  only  through  quantitative  determi- 
nations be  sure  we  have  made  accurate  observations,  observa- 

1  Jevons:  Principles  of  Science,  p.  270.  »  Ibid.,  pp.  271-72. 


404  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

tions  uncolored  by  personal  idiosyncrasies.  Both  errors  of 
observation  and  errors  of  judgment  are  checked  up  and 
averted  by  exact  quantitative  measurements.  The  relations 
of  phenomena,  moreover,  are  so  complex  that  specific  causes 
and  effects  can  only  be  understood  when  they  are  given  pre- 
cise quantitative  determination.  In  investigating  the  solubil- 
ity of  salts,  for  example,  we  find  variability  depending  on  dif- 
ferences in  temperature,  pressure,  the  presence  of  other  salts 
already  dissolved,  and  the  like.  The  solubility  of  salt  in 
water  differs  again  from  its  solubility  hi  alcohol,  ether,  carbon, 
bisulphide.  Generalization  about  the  solubility  of  salt, 
therefore,  depends  on  the  exact  measurement  of  the  phenom- 
enon under  all  these  conditions.1 

The  importance  of  exact  measurement  in  scientific  discov- 
ery and  generalization  may  be  illustrated  briefly  from  one 
instance  in  the  history  of  chemistry.  The  discovery  of  the 
chemical  element  argon  came  about  through  some  exact  meas- 
urements by  Lord  Rayleigh  and  Sir  William  Ramsay  of  the 
nitrogen  and  the  oxygen  in  a  glass  flask.  It  was  found  that 
the  nitrogen  derived  from  air  was  not  altogether  pure;  that 
is,  there  were  very  minute  differences  in  the  weighings  of  ni- 
trogen made  from  certain  of  its  compounds  and  the  weight 
obtained  by  removing  oxygen,  water,  traces  of  carbonic  acid, 
and  other  impurities  from  the  atmospheric  air.  It  was  found 
that  the  very  slightly  heavier  weight  in  one  case  was  caused 
by  the  presence  of  argon  (about  one  and  one  third  times  as 
heavy  as  nitrogen)  and  some  other  elementary  gases.  The 
discovery  was  here  clearly  due  to  the  accurate  measurement 
which  made  possible  the  discovery  of  this  minute  discrepancy. 

It  must  be  noted  in  general  that  accuracy  in  measurement 
is  immediately  dependent  on  the  instruments  of  precision 
available.  It  has  frequently  been  pointed  out  that  the  Greeks, 
although  incomparably  fresh,  fertile,  and  direct  in  their  think- 
ing, yet  made  such  a  comparatively  slender  contribution  to 
scientific  knowledge  precisely  because  they  had  no  instruments 

1  See  Jevons,  p.  279  ff. 


SCIENCE  AND  SCIENTIFIC  METHOD       405 

for  exact  measurement.  The  thermometer  made  possible  the 
science  of  heat.  The  use  of  the  balance  has  been  in  large  part 
responsible  for  advances  in  chemistry. 

The  degree  to  which  sciences  have  attained  quantitative 
accuracy  varies  among  the  physical  sciences.  The  phenom- 
ena of  light  are  not  yet  subject  to  accurate  measurement; 
many  natural  phenomena  have  not  yet  been  made  the  subject 
of  measurement  at  all.  Such  are  the  intensity  of  sound,  the 
phenomena  of  taste  and  smell,  the  magnitude  of  atoms,  the 
temperature  of  the  electric  spark  or  of  the  sun's  atmosphere.1 

The  sciences  tend,  in  general,  to  become  more  and  more 
quantitative.  All  phenomena  "exist  hi  space  and  involve 
molecular  movements,  measurable  in  velocity  and  extent." 
The  ideal  of  all  sciences  is  thus  to  reduce  all  phenomena  to 
measurements  of  mass  and  motion.  This  ideal  is  obviously 
far  from  being  attained.  Especially  in  the  social  sciences 
are  quantitative  measurements  difficult,  and  in  these  sciences 
we  must  remain  therefore  at  best  in  the  region  of  shrewd 
guesses  or  fairly  reliable  probability. 

Statistics  and  probability.  While  in  the  social  sciences, 
exact  quantitative  measurements  are  difficult,  they  are  to  an 
extent  possible,  and  to  the  extent  that  they  are  possible  we 
can  arrive  at  fairly  accurate  generalizations  as  to  the  probable 
occurrence  of  phenomena.  There  are  many  phenomena  where 
the  elements  are  so  complex  that  they  cannot  be  analyzed 
and  invariable  causal  relations  established. 

In  a  study  of  the  phenomena  of  the  weather,  for  example,  the  phe- 
nomena are  so  exceedingly  complex  that  anything  approaching  a 
complete  statement  of  their  elements  is  quite  out  of  the  question. 
The  fallibility  of  most  popular  generalizations  in  these  fields  is  evi- 
dence of  the  difficulty  of  dealing  with  such  facts.  Must  we  be  con- 
tent then  simply  to  guess  at  such  phenomena?  ...  In  instances  of 
this  sort,  another  method  .  .  .  becomes  important:  The  Method  of 
Statistics.  In  statistics  we  have  an  exact  enumeration  of  cases.  If 
a  small  number  of  cases  does  not  enable  us  to  detect  the  causal  rela- 
tions of  a  phenomenon,  it  sometimes  happens  that  a  large  number, 

1  See  Jevons,  p.  273. 


406  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

accurately  counted,  and  taken  from  a  field  widely  extended  in  time 
and  space,  will  lead  to  a  solution  of  the  problem.1 

If  we  find,  in  a  wide  variety  of  instances,  two  phenomena 
occurring  in  a  certain  constant  correlation,  we  infer  a  causal 
relation.  If  the  variations  in  the  frequency  of  one  correspond 
to  variations  in  the  frequency  of  the  other,  there  is  probability 
of  more  than  connection  by  coincidence. 

The  correlation  between  phenomena  may  be  measured 
mathematically;  it  is  possible  to  express  in  figures  the  exact 
relations  between  the  occurrence  of  one  phenomenon  and 
the  occurrence  of  another.  The  number  which  expresses  this 
relation  is  called  the  coefficient  of  correlation.  This  coeffi- 
cient expresses  relationship  in  terms  of  the  mean  values  of  the 
two  series  of  phenomena  by  measuring  the  amount  each  indi- 
vidual phenomenon  varies  from  its  respective  mean.  Sup- 
pose, for  example,  that  in  correlating  crime  and  unemploy- 
ment, the  coefficient  of  correlation  were  found  to  be  .47.  If  in 
every  case  of  unemployment  crime  were  found  and  in  every 
case  of  crime,  unemployment,  the  coefficient  of  correlation 
would  be  +1.  If  crime  were  never  found  in  unemployment, 
and  unemployment  never  in  crime,  the  coefficient  of  correla- 
tion would  be  —1,  indicating  a  perfect  inverse  relationship. 
A  coefficient  of  0  would  indicate  that  there  is  no  relationship. 
The  coefficient  of  .47  would  accordingly  indicate  a  significant 
but  not  a  "high"  correlation  between  crime  and  unemploy- 
ment. 

We  cannot  consider  here  all  the  details  of  statistical  meth- 
ods, but  attention  may  be  called  to  a  few  of  the  more  signifi- 
cant features  of  the  process.  Statistics  is  a  science,  and  con- 
sists in  much  more  than  the  mere  counting  of  cases. 

With  the  collection  of  statistical  data,  only  the  first  step  has  been 
taken.  The  statistics  in  that  condition  are  only  raw  material  show- 
ing nothing.  They  are  not  an  instrument  of  investigation  any  more 
than  a  kiln  of  bricks  is  a  monument  of  architecture.  They  need  to 

1  Jones:  Logic,  Inductive  and  Deductive,  p.  190. 


SCIENCE  AND  SCIENTIFIC  METHOD       407 

be  arranged,  classified,  tabulated,  and  brought  into  connection  with 
other  statistics  by  the  statistician.  Then  only  do  they  become  an 
instrument  of  investigation,  just  as  a  tool  is  nothing  more  than  a 
mass  of  wood  or  metal,  except  in  the  hands  of  a  skilled  workman.1 

The  essential  steps  in  a  statistical  investigation  are:  (1)  the 
collection  of  material,  (2)  its  tabulation,  (3)  the  summary, 
and  (4)  a  critical  examination  of  the  results.  The  terms  are 
almost  self-explanatory.  There  are,  however,  several  general 
points  of  method  to  be  noted. 

In  the  collection  of  data  a  wide  field  must  be  covered,  to  be 
sure  that  we  are  dealing  with  invariable  relations  instead  of 
with  mere  coincidences,  "or  overemphasizing  the  importance 
of  one  out  of  a  number  of  cooperating  causes."  Tabulation 
of  the  data  collected  is  very  important,  since  classification  of 
the  data  does  much  to  suggest  the  causal  relations  sought. 
The  headings  under  which  data  will  be  collected  depend  on 
the  purposes  of  the  investigation.  In  general,  statistics  can 
suggest  generalizations,  rather  than  establish  them.  They 
indicate  probability,  not  invariable  relation.2 

Science  as  an  instrument  of  human  progress.  We  have,  in 
an  earlier  section  of  this  chapter,  referred  to  the  practical 
value  of  science.  "Man's  power  of  deliberate  control  of  his 
own  affairs  depends  upon  ability  to  direct  energies  to  use;  an 
ability  which  is,  in  turn,  dependent  upon  insight  into  nature's 
processes.  Whatever  natural  science  may  be  for  the  special- 
ist, ...  it  is  knowledge  of  the  conditions  of  human  action."  s 
And  the  wider,  the  more  complete  and  the  more  penetrating 
our  knowledge  of  the  world  in  which  we  live,  the  more  ex- 
tended become  the  boundaries  of  human  action.  Through 
a  knowledge  of  natural  processes,  men  have  passed  from  a 
frightened  subjection  to  Nature  to  its  conscious  control.  And 
the  fruits  of  that  control  are,  as  we  have  already  had  occa- 
sion to  notice,  all-pervading  in  practical  life.  That  complete 
transformation  of  life  known  as  the  Industrial  Revolution, 

1  Mayo-Smith:  Statistics  and  Sociology,  P-  18. 

1  See  Jones:  Logic,  pp.  213-25,  for  a  discussion  of  Probability. 

*  Dewey:  Democracy  and  Education,  p.  267. 


408  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

which  came  about  with  such  swiftness  and  completeness ..in 
the  early  nineteenth  century,  and  whose  effects  have  not  yet 
ceased  to  accumulate,  was  the  direct  outcome  of  the  appli- 
cation of  the  experimental  science  which  had  begun  in  the 
sixteenth.  Some  of  the  consequences  of  the  application  of 
theoretical  investigation  to  practical  life  have  already  been 
noted.  There  are  first  the  more  obvious  facts  of  the  inven- 
tions, great  and  small  —  the  railways,  steamships,  electric 
transportation,  automobiles,  and  telephones  —  which  have 
changed  in  countless  details  our  daily  life.  There  are  the 
profound  and  all-pervasive  changes  which  have  been  brought 
about  in  industrial  and  social  relations:  the  building-up  of 
our  vast  industrial  centers,  the  change  from  small-scale 
handicrafts  to  large-scale  machine  production,  the  factory 
system,  with  its  concomitants  of  immensely  increased  re- 
sources and  immensely  complicated  problems  of  human 
life.  Science  in  the  short  span  of  three  centuries  has  shown 
how  rapid  and  immediate  could  be  the  fruits  of  human  con- 
trol of  Nature,  and  its  further  fruits  are  incalculable. 

Science  has  indeed  already  begun  to  affect  men's  attitude 
towards  experience  as  well  as  their  material  progress.?  It  is 
only  when  men  set  out  with  the  conscious  realization  that  in- 
telligence does  make  a  difference  in  the  world,  that  science 
becomes  articulate.  Science  is  the  guarantee  of  progress.  It 
has  shown  men  that  the  future  is  to  some  extent  in  their  own 
hands;  that  by  dint  of  a  laborious  and  detailed  application  of 
intelligence  to  the  processes  of  nature,  those  processes  can  be 
controlled  in  the  interests  of  human  welfare. 

Science  has  led  men  to  look  to  the  future  instead  of  the  past.  The 
coincidence  of  the  ideal  of  progress  with  the  advance  of  science  is  not 
a  mere  coincidence.  Before  this  advance  men  placed  the  golden  age 
in  remote  antiquity.  Now  they  face  the  future  with  a  firm  belief 
that  intelligence  properly  used  can  do  away  with  evils  once  thought 
inevitable.  To  subjugate  devastating  disease  is  no  longer  a  dream; 
the  hope  of  abolishing  poverty  is  not  Utopian.1 

»  Dewey:  Democracy  and  Education,  pp.  262-63. 


SCIENCE  AND  SCIENTIFIC  METHOD       409 

But  science  may  be  used  for  any  end.  It  reveals  the  rela- 
tions of  phenomena,  relations  which  hold  for  all  men.  It 
shows  what  causes  are  connected  with  what  consequents,  and, 
as  already  pointed  out,  in  the  knowledge  of  causes  lies  the 
possible  control  of  effects.  We  can  secure  the  results  we  de- 
sire, by  discovering  what  antecedents  must  first  be  established. 
Science  is  thus  a  fund  of  common  resources.  Specific  causes 
are  revealed  to  be  connected  with  specific  effects,  and  men,  by 
making  a  choice  of  antecedents,  can  secure  the  consequences 
they  desire.  But  which  effects  they  will  desire  depends  on  the 
instincts,  standards,  and  habits  of  the  individual,  and  the 
traditions  and  ideals  of  the  group.  A  knowledge  of  chemistry 
may  be  used  for  productive  industrial  processes,  or  in  the  in- 
vention of  poison  gas.  Expert  acquaintance  with  psychology 
and  educational  methods  may  be  used  to  impress  upon  a 
nation  an  arbitrary  type  of  lif e  (an  accusation  justly  brought 
against  the  Prussian  educational  system),  or  to  promote  the 
specific  possibilities  that  each  individual  displays. 

Not  only  are  the  fruits  of  scientific  inquiry  used  in  different 
ways  by  different  individuals  and  groups,  but  scientific  in- 
quiry is  itself  affected  by  the  prevailing  interests  and  mode 
of  life.  What  inquiries  shall  be  furthered  depends  on  what 
the  individual  or  group  feels  it  important  to  know.  From 
a  social  point  of  view,  certain  scientific  developments  are  of 
more  urgency  and  imperativeness  than  others.  During  an 
emergency,  as  during  the  Great  War,  it  might  be  necessary 
to  turn  all  the  energies  of  scientific  men  into  immediately 
productive  pursuits.  And,  since  the  pursuit  of  inquiry  on  a 
large  scale  demands  large  resources,  those  researches  which 
give  promise  of  beneficent  human  consequences  will  the  more 
readily  command  social  sanction  and  approval  and  will  be 
developed  at  the  expense  of  more  remote  speculations  how- 
ever intrinsically  interesting  these  latter  may  be. 

Science  has  proved  so  valuable  a  human  instrument  that  it 
has  attained  a  moral  responsibility.  Men  have  increasingly 
come  to  realize  that  the  pressing  problems  of  our  industrial 


410  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

life  require  for  their  solution  not  the  confusions  and  incompe- 
tences of  passion  and  prejudice,  but  an  application  of  the 
fruits  of  scientific  inquiry.  Science  has  already  so  completely 
demonstrated  its  vast  fruitfulness  in  human  welfare,  that  it 
must  be  watched  with  jealous  vigilance.  It  must  result  as  it 
began,  in  the  improvement  of  human  welfare.1  But  what 
constitutes  human  welfare  is  a  question  which  leads  us  into 
the  final  activity  of  the  Career  of  Reason,  Morals  and  Moral 
Valuation,  man's  attempt  to  determine  what  happiness  is, 
and  how  he  may  attain  it. 

1  We  have  already  noted  the  danger  of  too  complete  a  commitment  of 
science  to  immediately  practical  results.  This  narrows  instead  of  broadening 
possibility.  As  Mr.  F.  P.  Keppel  points  out  in  a  recent  article,  "  Scholarship 
in  War"  (Columbia  University  Quarterly,  July,  1919),  some  of  the  most  im- 
portant and  immediately  practical  contributions  during  the  Great  War  came 
from  the  ranks  of  those  who  would  be  regarded  as  "  pure  theorists." 


CHAPTER  XV 
MORALS  AND  MORAL  VALUATION 

The  pre-conditions  of  morality  —  Instinct,  impulse,  and 
desire.  In  Art  and  Science,  man  attempts  to  transform  the 
world  of  nature  into  conditions  more  in  conformity  with  his 
desires.  In  the  enterprise  of  Morals,  man  attempts  to  dis- 
cover how  to  control  his  own  nature  in  the  attainment  of  hap- 
piness. We  have  already  had  occasion  to  see  that  Art,  in  the 
broad  sense  of  human  contrivance,  is  made  necessary  by  the 
incongruity  between  nature  and  human  nature.  We  shall 
examine  now  the  conditions  which  make  it  necessary  and 
make  it  possible  for  man  to  consider  and  to  control  those 
elementary  impulses  with  which  he  is  endowed. 

The  origin  of  the  moral  problem  will  become  clearer  after 
a  brief  recapitulation  of  those  elements  of  original  nature 
which  form  the  basis  of  all  human  action.  We  have  seen 
that  human  beings  are  equipped,  apart  from  education  or 
training,  with  certain  tendencies  to  act  in  certain  definite 
ways,  given  certain  definite  stimuli.  Any  single  activity  of 
an  average  human  being  in  a  modern  civilized  community  is 
compounded  of  so  many  modifications  of  original  tendencies 
to  action  that  these  latter  seem  often  altogether  obliterated. 
The  conditions  of  civilized  life,  moreover,  place  continual 
checks  on  the  free  activity  of  any  given  impulse,  and  there 
are  so  many  stimuli  playing  upon  an  individual  at  once  that 
the  responses  called  out  tend  to  inhibit  each  other.  The 
particular  thing  we  say  to  an  acquaintance  we  happen  to 
meet  is  not  determined  by  a  single  original  impulse,  by  love 
or  hate,  fear  or  sympathy,  pugnacity  or  pity.  It  is  a  com- 
pound of  some  or  of  most  of  these.  On  the  other  hand,  no 
matter  how  complicated  or  sophisticated  human  action  be- 
comes, it  is  built  out  of  these  same  impulses,  which  were 


412  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

operative  when  human  beings  had  not  yet  passed  out  of 
savagery.  We  may  check  and  control  our  responses  through 
habitual  repressions,  through  deliberate  forethought,  through 
conscious  or  mechanical  acquiescence  in  the  ways  of  the 
group  among  which  we  live.  But  these  original  impulses  are 
still  the  mainspring  of  our  activities. 

The  complex,  highly  artificial  character  of  our  civilization 
often  obscures  the  presence  of  these  powerful  instinctive 
tendencies,  but  that  they  are  present  and  powerful  several 
facts  bear  witness.  They  manifest  themselves,  as  the  newer 
psychology  of  the  subconscious  has  repeatedly  pointed  out, 
in  roundabout  ways;  they  are,  in  the  technical  phrase,  sub- 
limated. Instincts  find,  as  it  were,  substitute  realizations. 
This  process  of  sublimation  of  unfulfilled  desire  has  been 
noted  particularly  with  regard  to  the  sex  instinct,  but  the 
principle  applies  to  the  others. 

The  continual  suppression  of  instincts  results  in  various 
forms  of  morbidity,  in  what  Graham  Wallas  calls  "baulked 
dispositions."  To  say  that  instincts  are  repressed,  is  to  say 
there  is  a  maladjustment  between  the  individual  as  he  comes 
into  the  world,  and  the  world  as  he  finds  it.  This  maladjust- 
ment may  vary  in  intensity.  It  may  be  exhibited  in  nothing 
more  serious  than  boredom,  or  petulance,  or  hyper-sensitive- 
ness. It  may  be  a  chronic  sense  of  not  fitting  in,  of  being 
lost  in  a  blind  alley.  One  has  but  to  review  one's  list  of 
acquaintances  to  see  how  many  people  there  are  who  feel 
somehow  frustrated  in  the  work  they  happen  to  be  doing, 
who  feel  themselves  inexplicably  at  odds  with  the  world. 
Graham  Wallas  well  describes  the  situation  when  he  writes: 

For  we  cannot  in  Saint  Paul's  sense  mortify  our  dispositions.  If 
they  are  not  stimulated,  they  do  not  therefore  die,  nor  is  the  human 
being  what  he  would  be  if  they  had  never  existed.  If  we  leave  un- 
stimulated,  or,  to  use  a  shorter  term,  if  we  "baulk"  any  one  of  our 
main  dispositions,  Curiosity,  Property,  Trial  and  Error,  Sex,  and  the 
rest,  we  produce  in  ourselves  a  state  of  nervous  strain.  It  may  be 
desirable  in  any  particular  case  of  conduct  that  we  should  do  so,  but 
we  ought  to  know  what  we  are  doing. 


MORALS  AND  MORAL  VALUATION         413 

The  baulking  of  each  disposition  produces  its  own  type  of  strain; 
but  the  distinctions  between  the  types  are,  so  far,  unnamed  and  un- 
recognized, and  a  trained  psychologist  would  do  a  real  service  to 
civilized  life  if  he  would  carefully  observe  and  describe  them.1 

The  presence  of  instinctive  activities  is  seen  in  stark  im- 
mediacy and  directness  every  now  and  then  in  civilized  life. 
Lynchings  and  mob  violence  in  general  are  illustrations  of 
what  happens  when  groups  throw  to  the  winds  the  multiple 
inhibitions  of  custom  and  law.  And  the  records  of  the  crimi- 
nal courts  exhibit  more  cases  than  are  commonly  realized  of 
sheer  crimes  of  violence.  In  some  instances  these  can  be  set 
down  as  pathological,  but  in  many  more  they  are  normal 
instincts  breaking  through  the  fixed  channels  set  by  public 
opinion,  tradition,  and  legal  compulsion.  On  a  smaller  scale 
an  outburst  of  anger,  a  fit  of  temper,  sulk  or  spleen,  exhibits 
the  enduring  though  often  obscured  presence  of  instinctive 
tendencies  in  civilized  life. 

The  conflict  of  interests  between  men  and  groups.  How 
comes  it,  then,  that  men  whose  whole  activity  is  a  complica- 
tion of  these  powerful  original  tendencies  to  action  should  not 
follow  these  native  impulses  freely?  The  answer  is  that  men 
not  only  live,  but  live  together.  Wherever  human  wants,  as 
in  any  group,  even  a  small  one,  must  be  filled  through  co- 
operation, accommodation,  compromise,  give-and-take,  ad- 
justment must  be  made.  "Man,"  to  adapt  Kant's  phrase, 
" cannot  get  on  with  his  fellows;  and  he  cannot  get  on  without 
them."  Other  men  are  necessary  to  help  us  fulfill  our  desires, 
and  yet  our  desires  conflict  with  theirs.  The  dual  fact  of  co- 
operation and  conflict  is,  in  a  sense,  the  root  of  the  moral 
problem.  How  is  one  individual  to  attain  happiness  without 
at  the  same  time  interfering  with  the  iiappiness  of  others? 
How  can  the  desires  with  which  all  men  come  into  the  world  be 
fulfilled  for  all  men? 

The  adjustment  of  these  problems  is  at  once  complicated 
and  facilitated  by  the  fact  that  one  of  man's  most  powerful 

1  Wallas:  The  Great  Society,  p.  65. 


414  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

native  desires  is,  as  we  have  already  seen,  his  desire  to  please 
other  men.  This  extreme  sensitivity  to  the  praise  and  blame 
of  his  fellows  operates  powerfully  to  qualify  men's  other  in- 
stincts. The  ruthlessness  with  which  men  might  otherwise 
fulfill  their  desires  is  checked  by  the  fact  that  within  them- 
selves there  is  a  conflict  between  the  desire  to  win  other  sorts 
of  gratification,  and  the  desire  to  win  the  praise  of  others  and 
to  avoid  their  blame.  This  is  simply  one  instance  of  what  we 
shall  have  occasion  presently  to  note,  that  not  only  is  there  a 
conflict  between  men  in  the  fulfillment  of  their  native  instincts, 
but  within  individuals  an  adjustment  must  be  made  between 
competing  impulses  themselves. 

The  kinds  of  conflict  that  occur  between  men  in  the  ful- 
fillment of  their  original  native  tendencies,  are  as  various  as 
those  tendencies  and  their  combinations.  It  may  be  a  con- 
flict, as  in  primitive  life,  between  individuals  seeking  food 
from  the  same  source.  It  may  be  a  clash  in  the  pursuit  of  one 
form  or  another  of  self-enhancement,  enhancement  which 
can  come  to  only  some  individual  out  of  a  group.  The  sex 
instinct  has  afforded,  in  the  case  of  the  "eternal  triangle," 
an  example  of  the  sharing  by  two  people  of  an  imperious  de- 
sire for  precisely  the  same  object  of  satisfaction.  These  con- 
flicts of  interest  are  an  inevitable  result  of  the  constitution 
of  human  nature.  It  is  perfectly  natural  that  human  beings 
constituted  with  largely  identical  impulses  should  not  in- 
frequently seek  identical  satisfactions.  Groups  as  well  as 
individuals  may  come  into  collision,  and  for  analogous  rea- 
sons. Class  divisions  over  the  distribution  of  wealth,  niter- 
national  wars  over  the  distribution  of  territory,  are  sufficiently 
familiar  examples. 

The  levels  of  moral  action  —  Custom  —  The  establish- 
ment of  "  folkways."  No  anthropologist  seems  to  have  dis- 
covered anywhere  individuals  living  totally  alone  or  in  total 
oblivion  to  the  needs  or  interests  of  others.  The  human  ne- 
cessity for  cooperation  and  the  human  desire  for  companion- 
ship bring  individuals  together.  And  individuals,  once  living 


MORALS  AND  MORAL  VALUATION         415 

together,  find  some  modus  vivendi.  Adjustments  are,  in  gen- 
eral, effected  through  established  and  authoritative  "folk- 
ways." l  That  is,  certain  acts  come  to  be  recognized  as  sanc- 
tioned or  as  disapproved  by  the  group.  And  these  sanctions 
or  disapprovals  are  powerful  in  the  control  of  human  action. 
The  fact  that  individuals  live  and  must  live  together  is  thus 
the  surest  guarantee  that  they  will  not,  once  they  have  grown 
old  enough  to  communicate  with  other  people,  altogether  fol- 
low their  immediate  capricious  desires. 

The  reason  for  the  power  of  social  approvals  and  disap- 
provals over  individuals  lies  partly  in  the  fact,  already  noted, 
of  the  human  being's  extremely  high  sensitivity  to  the  praise 
and  blame  of  others.  But  part  of  the  explanation  is  social 
rather  than  psychological.  .  Even  primitive  tribes  take  special 
pains  to  make  public  and  pervasive  the  commands  and  pro- 
hibitions which  have  become  affixed  to  given  acts.  The  mere 
fact  that  an  act  is  customary  is  itself  a  sufficiently  strong 
guarantee  that  it  will  be  practiced,  since  the  human  being 
tends  to  perform,  as  he  likes  to  perform,  the  habitual.  But 
in  primitive  life,  the  enforcement  of  custom  is  not  left  to  the 
influence  of  habit.  The  prohibitions  and  sanctions,  both  in 
savage  and  in  civilized  society,  are  made  into  law.  In  the 
former  instance,  there  are  most  elaborate  devices  and  insti- 
tutions for  enforcing  the  traditional  approvals  and  disap- 
provals. Tabus  are  one  important  instrument  of 'the  en- 
forcement of  social  checks  upon  individual  action;  "tabus 
are  perhaps  not  so  much  a  means  for  enforcing  custom  as  they 
are  themselves  customs  invested  with  peculiar  and  awful 
sanction.  They  prohibit  or  ban  any  contact  with  certain 
persons  or  objects  under  penalty  of  danger  from  unseen 
beings." 

Through  ritual  certain  acts  come  to  be  performed  with 
great  regularity,  thoroughness,  detail,  and  solemnity.  "In 
primitive  life  it  [ritual]  is  widely  and  effectively  used  to  insure 
for  educational,  political,  and  domestic  customs  obedience  to 

1  Professor  Sumncr's  convenient  term. 


416  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

the  group  standards."  In  contemporary  life>  certain  social 
forms  and  observances,  as  well  as  certain  religious  ceremo- 
nies, are  examples  of  the  enforcement  of  given  acts,  by  ritual. 

Praise  and  blame  are  equally  effective  enforcements  of 
certain  types  of  action  and  of  the  avoidance  of  others.  In 
primitive  life,  praise  is  as  likely  as  not  to  take  the  form  of 
art  —  decorations,  costumes,  songs,  and  tattoos.  In  modern 
life,  as  we  have  seen,  praise  and  blame  take  the  form  of  public 
opinion,  as  expressed  by  friends,  acquaintances,  newspapers, 
and  the  like.1  Praise  and  blame  are  not  so  fixed  and  rigid 
in  civilized  communities;  individuals  move  freely  among  di- 
verse groups  whose  standards  differ.  But  group  approval  is 
none  the  less  effective. 

In  primitive  life  and,  though  less  patently,  in  contem- 
porary society,  physical  force  is  the  ultimate  power  for  en- 
forcing custom.  Primitive  chiefs  are  usually  the  strong  men 
of  the  tribes;  and  behind  law  in  modern  social  organization 
is  the  physical  power  of  the  State  to  enforce  it. 

Morality  as  conformity  to  the  established.  The  beginning 
of  morals  is  thus  to  be  found  in  conformity  to  the  established 
or  customary.  The  criterion  of  morality  is  compliance  — 
compliance  with  the  regular,  the  socially  approved,  the  com- 
mon (that  is,  the  communal)  ways  of  action.  Apart  from 
the  consequences  of  violation,  violation  per  se  is  impure,  un- 
holy, immoral.  The  terms  are,  in  some  cases,  interchange- 
able. In  primitive  life,  violations  are  regarded  with  partic- 
ular horror,  because  they  are  frequently  held  to  be  not  only 
infringements  of  established  ways  of  the  tribe,  but  as  offenses 
against  the  gods,  offenses  which  involve  the  whole  tribe  in 
the  retributive  punishments  of  the  gods.  Violation  of  the 
customary  may,  indeed,  apart  from  arousing  intellectual  dis- 
approval, provoke  a  genuine  revulsion  of  feeling  on  the  part 
of  a  group  which  has  acquired  certain  fixed  habits.  We  still 
feel  emotionally  shocked  by  the  infringement  of  a  custom 
that  we  do  not  intellectually  value  highly.  If  we  examine  our 

1  See  page  106. 


MORALS  AND  MORAL  VALUATION       .  417 

moral  furniture  we  find  it  made  up  of  an  immense  number  of 
early  acquired  inhibitions  or  "  checks."  These  not  only  pre- 
vent us  from  violating,  at  least  without  qualms,  standards  to 
which  we  have  early  been  trained;  they  make  deviations  or 
irregularities  on  the  part  of  others  appear  as  "immoral,"  even 
before  or  without  our  intellectually  classifying  them  as  such. 
There  are  adults,  for  example,  who  cannot  outgrow  the  feeling 
to  which  they  have  early  been  habituated,  that  card-playing 
at  any  time,  or  baseball-playing  on  Sunday,  is  "evil,"  even 
though  they  are  no  longer  intellectually  affected  by  scruples 
in  those  respects.  There  is  significance  in  the  fact  that  by 
speaking  of  "irregularities"  in  a  man's  conduct,  we  signify 
or  imply  moral  disapproval. 

The  group,  in  any  stage  of  civilization,  rewards  in  some 
form  conformity  to  group  standards,  and  punishes  infringe- 
ments of  them.  Punishment  may  be  nothing  more  tangible 
than  disrepute  or  ostracism;  it  may  be  as  serious  as  execution. 
Reward  may  range  from  a  decoration  or  a  chorus  of  praise 
to  all  forms  of  compensation  in  the  way  of  wealth,  rank,  and 
power. 

We  have  noted  how  sanctions  and  prohibitions  are  made 
public  and  effective  among  the  members  of  a  group.  But 
it  is  further  regarded  as  important  by  the  group  that  these 
customs,  positive  and  negative,  should  be  handed  down  from 
the  current  to  succeeding  generations.  In  primitive  life 
transmission  of  the  traditional  practices  is  made  a  very  special 
occasion  in  the  form  of  initiation  ceremonies. 

[Initiation  ceremonies!  are  held  with  the  purpose  of  inducting 
boys  into  the  privileges  of  manhood  and  into  the  full  life  of  the  group. 
They  are  calculated  at  every  step  to  impress  upon  the  initiate  his 
own  ignorance  and  helplessness  in  contrast  with  the  wisdom  and 
power  of  the  group;  and  as  the  mystery  with  which  they  are  con- 
ducted imposes  reverence  for  the  elders  and  the  authorities  of  the 
group,  so  the  recital  of  the  traditions  and  performances  of  the  tribe, 
the  long  series  of  ritual  acts,  common  participation  in  the  mystic 
dance  and  song  and  decorations,  serve  to  reinforce  the  ties  that  bind 
the  tribe.1 

.  *  Dewey  and  Tufts:  Ethics,  pp.  57-68. 


418  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON      >r 

In  civilized  life,  the  whole  institution  of  education-,  as 
has  been  repeatedly  emphasized  in  these  pages,  is  designed 
to  transmit  to  the  young  those  habits  of  thought,  feeling, 
and  action  which  then*  influential  elders  wish  to  perpetuate. 
As  was  noted  in  connection  with  man's  gregariousness,  the 
normal  becomes  the  "respectable,"  the  regular  becomes  the 
"proper."  We  still  speak  of  things  that  it  is  not  "nice"  to 
do.  This  tendency  to  identify  the  moral  with  the  customary 
is  brought  about  through  early  habituating  the  members  of 
the  group  to  the  group  standards  and  securing  for  them 
thereby  the  emotional  support  that  goes  with  all  habitual 
action. 

Morality  at  this  stage  is  clearly  social  in  its  origins  and 
its  operations.  The  standards  are  group  standards,  and  the 
individual's  single  duty  is  obedience  and  conformity  to  the 
established  social  sanctions. 

The  values  of  customary  morality.  The  problem  of  morals 
begins,  as  we  have  seen,  in  the  collision  of  interests  of  similarly 
constituted  individuals  living  together.  Adjustments  of 
conflicting  interests  are  effected  by  group  standards  more  or 
less  consciously  transmitted  and  enforced  by  education,  pub- 
lic opinion,  and  law.  We  shall  note  presently  that  reflec- 
tion operates  to  modify  and  criticize  these  customary  ap- 
provals and  disapprovals  and  to  substitute  more  effective 
standards.  But  whether  on  the  level  of  custom  or  reflection, 
the  moral  problem  is  essentially  a  social  problem,  the  problem 
of  the  adjustment  of  the  desires  of  individuals  living  together. 
For  an  individual  living  altogether  alone  in  the  world  there 
could  hardly  be  a  moral  problem,  a  question  of  "ought." 
There  might  be  problems  of  how  to  attain  satisfaction,  but  no 
sense  of  duty  or  moral  obligation.  Custom  is  the  first  great 
stage  through  which  morality  passes,  and  the  only  form  in 
which  morality  exists  for  many  people.  In  civilized  life  there 
is,  to  be  sure,  considerable  reflection  and  querying  of  custom, 
but  for  the  vast  majority  of  men  "right"  and  "wrong  "  arp. 
determined  by  the  standards  to  which  their  early  education 


MORALS  AND  MORAL  VALUATION         419 

and  environment  have  accustomed  them.  In  primitive  life, 
reflective  criticism  on  the  part  of  the  individual  is  almost  un- 
known, and  custom  remains  the  great  arbiter  of  action,  the 
outstanding  source  of  social  and  moral  control. 

The  values  of  custom  as  a  moral  force  are,  in  both  primitive 
and  civilized  life,  notable  and  not  to  be  despised.  Custom 
is,  in  the  first  place,  frequently  rational  in  its  origin.  That 
is,  in  general,  those  acts  are  made  habitual  in  the  group 
which  are  associated  with  the  general  welfare.  The  cus- 
tomary is  the  "right,"  but  those  activities  most  frequently 
come  to  be  regarded  as  "right"  which  are  favorable  to  the 
welfare  of  the  group.  In  the  literal  struggle  for  existence 
which  characterizes  primitive  life,  those  tribes  may  alone 
be  expected  to  survive  whose  customs  do  promote  the  wel- 
fare of  their  members.  Persistence  by  a  group  in  customs 
like  infanticide  or  excessive  restriction  of  population  will  re- 
sult in  their  extinction.  Customs  are,  for  the  most  part, 
standards  of  action  established  in  the  light  of  the  conceptions 
of  well-being  as  understood  at  the  time  of  their  origin.  The 
intensity  with  which  they  are  maintained,  enforced,  and  trans- 
mitted is  an  indication  of  how  supremely  and  practically 
important  they  are  regarded  by  primitive  groups. 

Custom  is  valuable,  if  for  nothing  else,  in  the  fact  that 
it  makes  possible  some  accommodation  or  adjustment  of 
competing  individual  interests  —  and  on  the  basis  of  a  widely 
considered  social  welfare.  Customs  are  social,  they  are  bind- 
ing on  all;  they  apply  to  all,  and  to  the  extent  that  they  do 
promote  welfare,  they  promote,  within  limits,  the  welfare 
of  all.  A  man  conforming  to  custom  is  thereby  consulting 
something  other  than  his  arbitrary  caprice  or  personal  de- 
sire. On  the  level  of  customary  morality,  action  through 
conformity  to  custom  is  referred  to  a  wider  context  than 
unconsidered  individual  impulse;  it  is,  for  better  or  worse, 
performed  with  reference  to  the  group  with  whose  standards 
it  is  in  conformity.  It  is  the  beginning  of  the  socialization 
of  human  interests.  Though  unconsciously,  the  man  con- 


420  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

forming  to  a  custom  is  considering  his  fellows,  and  the  values 
and  traditions  which  have  become  current  among  them. 

Customs,  moreover,  are  the  first  invasion  of  moral  chaos. 
They  establish  enduring  standards;  they  give  common  and 
permanent  bases  of  action.  It  is  only  through  the  establish- 
ment and  transmission  of  customary  standards  that  one  gen- 
eration is  in  any  way  superior  to  its  predecessors.  Cus- 
toms, in  civilized  life,  include  all  the  established  effective 
ways  of  civilization,  its  arts,  its  sciences,  its  industries,  and 
its  useful  modes  of  cooperation. 

If  a  plague  carried  off  the  members  of  a  society  all  at  once,  it  is 
obvious  that  the  group  would  be  permanently  done  for.  Yet  the 
death  of  each  of  its  constituent  members  is  as  certain  as  if  a  plague 
took  them  off  all  at  once.  But  the  graded  difference  in  age,  the  fact 
that  some  are  born  as  some  die,  makes  possible  through  transmission 
of  ideas  and  practices  the  constant  reweaving  of  the  social  fabric. 
Yet  this  renewal  is  not  automatic.  Unless  pains  are  taken  to  see 
that  genuine  and  thorough  transmission  takes  place,  the  most  civi- 
lized group  will  relapse  into  barbarism  and  then  into  savagery.1 

In  all  levels  of  civilization,  there  is  a  conscious  trans- 
mission of  those  social  habits  which  are  regarded  as  of  im- 
portance. If  this  transmission  were  suddenly  to  cease,  not 
only  would  each  generation  have  to  start  afresh,  but  it  would 
be  altogether  impossible  for  it  to  grow  to  maturity. 

The  defects  of  customary  morality.  While  custom  is  thus 
valuable  as  a  moral  agent  in  establishing  standards  of  social 
life  and  rendering  them  continuous  and  enduring,  a  morality 
that  is  completely  based  upon  it  has  serious  defects.  Though 
customs  may  start  as  allegedly  or  actually  useful  practices, 
they  tend,  so  strong  is  the  influence  of  habit  over  the  indi- 
vidual, to  outlive  their  usefulness,  and  may  become,  indeed, 
altogether  disadvantageous  conventions.  "Dr.  Arthur  Smith 
tells  of  the  advantage  it  would  be  in  some  parts  of  China  to 
build  a  door  on  the  south  side  of  the  house,  in  order  to  get 
the  breeze,  in  hot  weather."  The  simple  and  sufficient 
1  Dewey:  Democracy  and  Education,  p.  4. 


MORALS  AND  MORAL  VALUATION         421 

answer  to  such  a  suggestion  is,  "We  don't  build  doors  on  the 
south  side." 

We  have  but  to  examine  our  own  civilization  to  see  that 
there  are  many  customs  which  are  practiced  not  for  any 
good  assignable  reason,  but  simply  because  they  have  be- 
come fixed  and  traditional.  This  is  not  to  say  that  every- 
thing that  has  become  "merely  conventional"  is  evil.  It  is 
to  suggest  how,  even  in  civilized  society,  groups  may  fall 
into  modes  of  action  that  are  practiced  simply  because  they 
have  been  practiced,  rather  than  from  any  reasoned  con- 
sideration that  they  should  be.  An  illustration  may  be  taken 
from  the  experience  of  civilians  drawn  into  the  military 
routine  during  the  Great  War.  Men  engaged  in  war  work 
at  Washington  in  civilian  capacities  reported  repeatedly 
their  impatience  at  the  "red  tape"  of  tradition  with  which 
certain  classes  of  business  were  conducted  by  the  military 
establishment.  In  law  also,  progressive  practitioners  and 
students  have  pointed  out  the  well-known  fact  of  the  im- 
mense and  beclogging  ritual  which  has  come  to  surround 
legal  procedure.  It  is  the  contention  of  critics  of  one  or 
another  of  our  contemporary  social  habits  and  institutions 
that  traditionalism,  the  persistence  of  custom  simply  be- 
cause it  is  custom,  is  responsible  for  many  of  the  anachro- 
nisms in  our  social,  political,  and  industrial  life.  Space  does 
not  permit  here  a  detailed  consideration  of  this  question, 
but  it  must  be  noted  that  social  habits,  when  they  are  ac- 
quired, as  they  are,  unreflectively  by  the  vast  majority  of 
people,  will  tend  to  be  repeated  and  supported,  apart  from 
any  consideration  of  their  consequences.  This  tendency 
toward  social  inertia,  earlier  noted  in  connection  with  habit, 
can  only  be  checked  by  reflective  criticism  and  appraise- 
ment of  our  current  accustomed  ways  of  action.1 

In  the  case  of  the  group,  too  complete  a  domination  by 
custom  is  dangerous  in  that  it  sanctions  and  promotes  the 
continuance  of  habits  that  have  become  useless  or  harmful. 

1  See  chapter  on  "  Cultural  Continuity." 


422  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

In  the  case  of  the  individual,  the  determination  of  action  by 
custom  alone  has  its  specific  dangers  and  defects.  Even 
though  the  individual  happens  to  conform  to  useful  customs, 
his  conformity  is  purely  mechanical.  It  involves  no  intelli- 
gent discrimination.  Merely  to  conform  places  one  at 
the  disposition  of  the  environment  in  which  one  chances  to 
be.  There  is  not  necessary  any  intelligent  analysis  on  the 
part  of  the  agent,  of  the  bearings  and  consequences  of  his 
actions.  He  takes  on  with  fatal  facility  the  color  of  his 
environment.  To  all  men,  however  critical  and  reflective,  a 
certain  degree  of  conformity  to  custom  is  both  necessary  and 
useful.  There  must,  in  any  social  enterprise,  be  some  common 
basis  of  action.  Because  taking  the  right-hand  side  of  the  road 
is  a  convention,  it  is  none  the  less  a  useful  one.  But  reflective 
acquiescence  in  a  custom  differs  from  merely  mechanical 
conformity.  It  transforms  a  custom  from  a  blind  mechanism 
into  a  consciously  chosen  instrument  for  achieving  good. 

The  trivial  and  the  important  in  a  morality  based  upon 
custom  receive  the  same  unconsidered  support.  "Tithing 
mint,  anise,  and  cummin  are  quite  likely  to  involve  the  neglect 
of  weightier  matters  of  the  law."  Physical,  emotional,  and 
moral  energies  that  should  be  devoted  to  matters  genuinely 
affecting  human  welfare  are  lavished  upon  the  trivial  and  the 
incidental.  We  may  come  to  be  concerned  more  with  man- 
ners than  with  morals;  with  ritual,  than  with  right.  Cus- 
tomary morality  tends  to  emphasize,  moreover,  the  letter 
rather  than  the  spirit  of  the  law.  It  implies  complete  and 
punctilious  obedience,  meticulous  conformity.  It  empha- 
sizes form  rather  than  content.  Since  conformity  is  the  only 
criterion,  the  appearance  of  conformity  is  all  that  is  required. 
The  individual  may  fear  to  dissent  openly  rather  than  actu- 
ally. This  is  seen  frequently  in  the  ritualistic  performance 
or  fulfillment  of  a  duty  in  all  its  external  details,  rather 
than  the  actual  and  positive  performance  of  its  content.  It 
is  just  such  Pharisaism  that  is  protested  against  in  the  Sermon 
on  the  Mount: 


MORALS  AND  MORAL  VALUATION          423 

And  when  thou  prayest,  thou  shalt  not  be  as  the  hypocrites  are; 
for  they  love  to  pray  standing  in  the  synagogues  and  in  the  corners 
of  the  streets,  that  they  may  be  seen  of  men.  Verily  I  say  unto  you, 
They  have  their  reward. .  . . 

But  when  ye  pray,  use  not  vain  repetitions  as  the  heathen  do;  for 
they  think  that  they  shall  be  heard  for  their  much  speaking. 

Formalism  in  morality  has  periodically  roused  protest  from 
the  Prophets  down,  and  formalism  is  the  result  of  an  uncon- 
eidered  mechanical  acquiescence  in  custom,  or  deliberate  in- 
sistence on  traditional  details  when  the  spirit  and  motive  are 
forgotten. 

Custom  and  progress.  Emphasis  upon  customs  as  already 
established  tends  to  promote  fixity  and  repetition,  and  to  dis- 
courage change  regardless  of  the  benefits  to  be  derived  from 
specific  changes.  Custom  is  supported  by  the  group  merely 
because  it  is  custom;  and  the  ineffective  modes  of  life  are 
maintained  along  with  those  which  are  more  useful.  Progress 
comes  about  through  individual  variation,  and  conformity 
and  individual  variation  are  frequently  in  diametrical  col- 
lision. It  is  only  when,  in  Bagehot's  phrase,  "the  cake  of 
custom"  is  broken,  that  changes  making  for  good  have  a 
possibility  of  introduction  and  support.  Where  the  only 
moral  sanctions  are  the  sanctions  of  custom,  change  of 
whatever  sort  is  at  a  discount.  For  change  implies  devia- 
tion from  the  ways  of  life  sanctioned  by  the  group,  and 
deviation  is  itself,  in  a  custom-bound  morality,  regarded  with 
suspicion. 

It  is  clear  that  complete  conformity  is  impossible  save  in 
a  society  of  automata.  There  will  be  some  individuals  who 
will  not  be  able  to  curb  their  desires  to  fit  the  inhibitions 
fixed  by  the  group;  there  will  be  some  who  will  deliberately 
stand  out  against  the  group  commands  and  prohibitions,  and 
assert  their  own  imperious  impulses  against  their  fellows. 
Where  such  men  are  powerful  or  persuasive  they  may  indeed 
bring  about  a  transvaluation  of  all  values;  they  may  create 
a  new  morality.  There  are  geniuses  of  the  moral  as  well 


424       THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

as  the  intellectual  life,  whose  sudden  insight  becomes  a  stand- 
ard for  succeeding  generations. 

There  may,  again,  be  more  infringement  of  the  moral  code 
than  is  overtly  noticeable.  Frequently,  as  in  a  Puritanical 
regime,  there  may  be,  along  with  fanatic  public  professions 
and  practice  of  virtue,  private  violation  of  the  conventional 
moral  codes.  Our  civilization  is  unpleasantly  decorated  with 
countless  examples  of  this  discrepancy  between  professed 
and  practiced  codes.  The  desire  for  praise  and  the  fear  of 
blame  and  its  consequences,  the  desire,  as  we  say,  for  the 
"good- will"  and  "respect  of  others,"  will  lead  to  all  the  public 
manifestations  of  virtue,  "with  a  private  vice  or  two  to  ap- 
pease the  wayward  flesh."  The  utterance  of  conventional 
moral  formulas  by  men  in  public,  and  the  infringement  of 
those  high  doctrines  in  private,  needs  unfortunately  not  to 
be  illustrated.  Moliere  drew  Tartuffe  from  real  life. 

Origin  and  nature  of  reflective  morality.  If  the  customs 
current  were  adequate  to  adjust  men  to  then*  environment, 
reflection  upon  them  might  never  arise.  Reflection  does 
arise  precisely  because  customs  are  not,  or  do  not  remain, 
adequate.  An  individual  is  brought  up  to  believe  that  cer- 
tain actions  are  good,  and  that  their  performance  promotes 
human  happiness.  He  discovers,  by  an  alert  and  unclouded 
insight,  that  in  specific  cases  the  virtues  highly  regarded  by 
his  group  do  not  bring  the  felicitous  results  which  they  are 
commonly  and  proverbially  held  to  produce.  He  observes, 
let  us  say,  that  meekness,  humility,  honesty  are  not  modes 
of  adaptation  that  bring  happy  results.  He  observes,  as 
Job  observed,  that  the  wicked  prosper;  he  notes  that  those 
who  follow  the  path  called  righteous  bring  unhappiness  to 
themselves  and  to  others. 

Or  the  individual's  first  reflection  upon  moral  standards 
may  arise  in  his  discovery  that  moral  standards  are  not 
absolute,  that  what  is  virtue  in  the  Occident  is  vice  in  the 
Orient,  and  vice  versa.  He  discovers  that  those  actions  which 
he  regards  as  virtuous  are  so  regarded  by  him  simply  because 


MORALS  AND  MORAL  VALUATION         425 

he  has  been  trained  to  their  acceptance.  Given  another  en- 
vironment, his  moral  revulsions  and  approvals  might  be 
diametrically  reversed.  He  makes  the  discovery  that  Pro- 
tagoras made  two  thousand  years  ago:  "Man  is  the  measure 
of  all  things";  standards  of  good  and  evil  depend  on  the 
accidents  of  time,  space,  and  circumstance.  In  such  a  discov- 
ery an  individual  may  well  query,  What  is  the  good?  Not 
what  passes  for  good,  but  what  is  the  essence  of  goodness? 
What  is  justice?  Not  what  is  accredited  justice  in  the  courts 
of  law,  or  in  the  market-place,  or  in  the  easy  generalizations 
of  common  opinion.  But  what  constitutes  justice  essentially? 
What  is  the  standard  by  which  actions  may  be  rated  just  and 
unjust? 

Where  individuals  are  habituated  to  one  single  tradition 
or  set  of  customs,  such  questions  may  not  arise.  But  where 
one,  through  personal  experience  or  acquaintance  with  his- 
tory and  literature,  discovers  the  multiplicity  of  standards 
which  have  been  current  with  regard  to  the  just  and  the  good 
in  human  conduct,  the  search  for  some  reasonable  standard 
arises.  The  great  historical  instance  of  the  discovery  of  the 
relativity  and  irrationality  of  customary  morality  and  the 
emergence  of  reflective  standards  of  moral  value  is  the  Athe- 
nian period  of  Greek  philosophy.  The  Sophists  pointed  out 
with  merciless  perspicuity  the  welter,  the  confusion,  the  es- 
sential irrationality  of  current  social  and  religious  traditions 
and  beliefs.  They  went  no  further  in  moral  analysis  than 
destructive  criticism.  They  pointed  out  the  want  of  authen- 
ticity or  reason  in  the  traditional  morality  by  which  men  lived. 
Socrates  went  a  step  further.  If  current  customs  are  not 
authoritative,  he  said,  let  us  find  those  that  have  and  ought  to 
have  enduring  authority  over  men.  If  the  traditional  stand- 
ards are  proved  to  be  futile  and  inefficacious,  let  us  find  the 
unfaltering  standards  authenticated  by  reason.  Let  us  sub- 
stitute relevant  and  adequate  codes  and  creeds  for  those 
which  have  by  reason  been  shown  to  be  unreasonable.  Be- 
neath the  multiplicity  of  contradictory  and  often  vicious 


426  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

customs,  reason  must  be  able  to  discover  ways  of  life,  which, 
if  followed,  will  lead  men  to  eventual  happiness. 

There  are  thus  two  stages  in  the  process  of  reflection  upon 
morals.  In  the  first  stage  reflection  does  no  more  than  to 
point  out  the  essential  discrepancies  and  absurdities  of  the 
current  moral  codes.  Reflection  upon  morals  begins  by 
being  critical  and  querying.  It  starts  when  an  individual, 
a  little  more  thoughtful  and  perspicacious  than  his  fellows, 
notes  the  discrepancies  between  the  customs  of  different 
men,  and  notes  also  the  discrepancies  between  the  threatened 
results  of  the  violation  of  traditional  codes  and  the  actual 
results.  He  may  then  come  to  the  cynic's  conclusion  that 
morality  is  a  myth  and  a  delusion,  and,  in  the  words  of  the 
Sophist  hi  Plato's  Republic,  "justice  is  merely  the  right  of 
the  stronger."  Men  in  whom  reflection  or  social  sympathy 
extends  not  very  far  may,  as  they  frequently  do,  stop  at  this 
point.  THeee  are  the  worldly  wise;  they  are  interested  not 
in  goodness,  truth,  and  justice,  but  in  those  effective  repre- 
sentations of  those  things  publicly  accounted  good,  true,  and 
just  which  will  win  them  public  approval  and  increase  their 
own  wealth  or  power  and  position.  Plato,  in  the  Republic, 
pictures  the  type  with  magnificent  irony: 

All  those  mercenary  adventurers  who,  as  we  know,  are  called 
sophist  by  the  multitude,  and  regarded  as  rivals,  really  teach  nothing 
but  the  opinions  of  the  majority  to  which  expression  is  given  when 
large  masses  are  collected,  and  dignify  them  with  the  title  of  wisdom. 
As  well  might  a  person  investigate  the  caprices  and  desires  of  some 
huge  and  powerful  monster  in  his  keeping,  studying  how  it  is  to  be 
approached,  and  how  handled,  —  at  what  times  and  under  what 
circumstances  it  becomes  most  dangerous,  or  most  gentle  —  on  what 
occasions  it  is  in  the  habit  of  uttering  its  various  cries,  and  further, 
what  sounds  uttered  by  another  person  soothe  or  exasperate  it,  — 
and  when  he  has  mastered  all  these  particulars,  by  long-continued 
intercourse,  as  well  might  he  call  his  results  wisdom,  systematize 
them  into  an  art,  and  open  a  school,  though  in  reality  he  is  wholly 
ignorant  which  of  these  humours  and  desires  is  fair,  and  which  foul, 
which  good  and  which  evil,  which  just  and  which  unjust;  and  there- 
fore is  content  to  affix  all  these  names  to  the  fancies  of  the  huge 


MORALS  AND  MORAL  VALUATION         427 

animal,  calling  what  it  likes  good,  and  what  it  dislikes  evil,  without 
being  able  to  render  any  other  account  of  them,  —  nay,  giving  the 
titles  of  "just"  and  "fair"  to  things  done  under  compulsion,  because 
he  has  not  discerned  himself,  and  therefore  cannot  point  out  to 
others,  that  wide  distinction  which  really  holds  between  the  nature 
of  the  compulsory  and  the  good.1 

Throughout  human  history,  there  have  been  periods  of 
individualism,  of  self-assertion  against  the  traditional  mo- 
rality, which  have  been  marked  by  loss  of  moral  restraints, 
by  a  breakdown  of  the  old  standards  without  a  substitution 
of  new  and  sounder  ones.  There  has  been,  in  the  beginning 
of  almost  every  advance  toward  a  new  stage  of  moral  valua- 
tion, the  accompaniment  of  liberty  by  license. 

Reflection  upon  morals  is  not  likely  to  produce  immediately 
good  results.  The  established  morality  is  at  least  established. 
In  so  far  as  it  is  controlling  in  men's  actions,  it  keeps  those 
actions  ordered  and  regular.  The  traditional  code  by  which 
a  man's  life  is  governed  may  be  a  poor  code,  but  it  is  more 
satisfactory  than  no  code  at  all.  On  discovering  the  inade- 
quacy of  the  morality  by  which  he  has  lived,  a  man  may  re- 
ject morality  altogether.  From  that  time  forth  he  may  have 
no  other  standard  than  his  own  selfish  desires.  When  a  whole 
society,  as  at  the  time  of  the  Renaissance,  throws  its  tradi- 
tional morality  to  the  winds,  it  may  make  havoc  of  its  free- 
dom. In  place  of  a  bad  moral  order  it  may  cease  to  have  any 
moral  order  at  all. 

The  discovery  that  the  codes  by  which  we  have  lived  are 
misleading  and  delusive  may  lead  us  to  have  nothing  what- 
soever to  do  with  morals.  The  individual  may  decide  simply 
to  employ  his  superior  insight  in  the  exploitation  of  other  peo- 
ple. It  is  something  of  this  point  of  view  that  is  expressed 
in  the  rampant  individualism  of  Nietzsche  and  Max  Stirner. 
The  customary  morality  is  meant  for  slaves;  the  Superman 
must  stride  above  the  signs  and  shibboleths  by  which  men 
are  led,  and  create  himself  a  morality  more  adequate  to  his 
own  superb  and  insolent  welfare. 

i  Plato:  Republic  (Golden  Treasury  edition),  pp.  209-10. 


428  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

For  the  reconstruction  of  a  morality  more  adequate  than 
the  prevailing  codes,  more  is  demanded  than  merely  a  re- 
flective criticism  of  prevailing  standards.  Where  reflection 
goes  no  further  than  this,  the  net  result  is  merely  cynicism 
and  libertinism.  For  moral  progress  there  is  needed  "a  per- 
son who  is  individual  in  choice,  in  feeling,  in  responsibility, 
and  at  the  same  time  social  in  what  he  regards  as  good,  in  his 
sympathies  and  in  his  purposes." 

Reflective  reconstruction  of  moral  standards.  The  second 
stage  of  reflection  upon  morals  consists  in  the  reconstruc- 
tion of  moral  standards,  in  a  deliberate  discovery  of  codes  by 
which  men  can  live  together  happily.  It  attempts  to  es- 
tablish standards  of  action  which  are  enforced  and  recom- 
mended not  because  they  have  been  current  and  are  currently 
approved,  but  because  they  give  promise,  upon  critical  exami- 
nation, of  contributing  to  human  happiness.  It  must  be  re- 
called here  that  reflective  morality  is  not  a  substitute  for  ac- 
tion based  upon  instinct  or  custom.  It  merely  modifies  these 
types  of  action  in  the  light  of  the  desirable  consequences  which 
would  result  from  such  modification. 

The  establishment  of  reflective  standards  is  limited  by  two 
general  conditions.  The  first,  previously  mentioned,  is  that 
human  beings  come  into  the  world  with  certain  fixed  tend- 
encies to  act.  These  original  impulses  may  be  obscured, 
but  cannot  be  abolished.  Secondly,  reflection  upon  morals 
always  must  occur  in  a  given  social  situation,  that  is,  in  a 
situation  where  certain  habits  of  mind,  emotion  and  action, 
are  already  in  operation.  Moral  standards  are  not  fresh 
constructions;  they  are  reconstructions.  We  may  want  to 
change  current  customs  and  traditions;  but  that  is  simply 
another  way  of  iterating  the  fact  that  they  are  there  to  be 
changed.  The  moral  reformer  who  would  improve  society 
must  take  into  account  the  fact  that  there  exist  among  the 
adult  members  of  a  generation,  powerful  habits,  which  may 
be  improved  or  amended,  but  which  cannot  be  ignored.  Any 
attempt  to  improve  men's  ways  of  action  starts  within 


MORALS  AND  MORAL  VALUATION         429 

processes  of  action  already  going  on.  It  is  not  as  if  we  could 
hold  up  the  processes  of  human  life,  and  say,  "Let  us  begin 
afresh."  The  generation  whose  habits  are  to  be  changed 
consists  of  living  men,  who  are  acting  on  the  basis  of  cus- 
toms which  have  become  intimately  and  powerfully  control- 
ling in  their  lives.  These  customs,  though  they  may  not 
be  altogether  satisfactory,  are  yet  great  social  economies. 
They  give  men  certain  determinate  and  efficacious  modes  of 
action.  Reflection  must  start  with  them  and  from  them. 
Unless  men,  furthermore,  did  act  according  to  custom,  they 
would  have  to  reflect  in  detail  about  every  step  of  their  con- 
duct. The  ami  of  reflection  is  simply  to  transform  existing 
customs  into  more  effective  methods  for  achieving  the  good. 
Reflection,  indeed,  must  move  within  certain  limits;  it  must 
take  certain  things  for  granted.  We  have  already  seen  that 
reflection  arises  in  a  crisis  of  greater  or  lesser  degree;  it  settles 
ambiguities,  resolves  the  obscure  and  doubtful  phases  of  situa- 
tions. It  is  designed  to  secure  adjustments  where  instinct  and 
habit  are  inadequate  to  adapt  the  individual  to  his  environ- 
ment. But  unless  there  were  certain  fixed,  determined  points 
to  start  with,  certain  limits  within  which  reflection  could 
operate,  and  which  it  could  use  as  points  of  reference  or  de- 
parture, all  would  be  chaos,  and  reflection  would  be  impossible. 
It  is  precisely  because  we  do  take  certain  things  as  settled, 
because,  as  the  phrase  runs,  "  they  go  without  saying,"  that  we 
can  think  to  any  purpose  whatsoever.  Useful  customs  once 
established  provide  precisely  these  fixed  points.  If  arbitra- 
tion of  labor  disputes  has  become  a  fixed  social  habit,  for 
example,  attention  can  be  turned  to  ways  and  means.  If 
education  has  become  a  generally  approved  social  habit,  we 
can  spend  our  time  on  instruments  and  methods.  Every  use- 
ful custom  firmly  established  gives  a  basis  of  operations. 
That  much  is  settled;  that  much  does  not  demand  our  alert 
attention  and  inquiry.  A  society  without  any  fixed  habits 
would  be  sheer  anarchy.  The  aim  of  intelligent  consideration 
of  morals  is  not  to  abolish  customs,  but  to  bring  about  their 


430  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

modification  so  that  they  will  be  the  most  effective  adjust- 
ment of  the  individual  and  the  group  to  their  environment. 

Indeed,  in  advanced  societies,  reflection  may  itself  become 
a  custom,  and  the  most  highly  valued  of  all.  For  where  alert 
and  conscious  criticism  of  existing  folkways  is  habitual  among 
all  the  members  of  a  society,  that  society  is  saved  from  sub- 
jection through  inertia  to  disserviceable  habits.  It  acts  as 
a  continual  check  and  control;  it  prevents  social  and  moral 
stagnation.  The  habit  of  reflection  upon  conduct,  if  it  could 
be  made  generally  current,  would  insure  social  progress. 
For  customs  would  be  regarded  merely  as  tools,  as  instru- 
ments to  be  modified  and  adapted  to  new  circumstances,  as 
provisional  modes  of  attaining  the  good.  Fixity  and  rigidity 
in  social  life  would  give  place  to  flexibility  and  wise  continual 
adaptation. 

j  The  values  of  reflective  morality.  Some  of  these  have  al- 
ready been  noted.  We  may  briefly  summarize  the  foregoing 
discussion,  and  call  attention  to  some  additional  values  of  a 
morality  based  upon  reason,  as  contrasted  with  a  morality  of 
mere  mechanical  conformity  to  custom.  It  has  already  been 
pointed  out  that  intellectual  preferences  and  valuations  are 
rooted  in  primary  impulses;  that  is,  our  desires  are  anterior  to 
reflection.  What  we  intellectually  value  and  prefer  has  its 
roots  in  primary  impulses.  Reason  can  discover  how  man 
may  attain  the  good;  but  what  is  good  is  determined  by  the 
desires  with  which  man  is,  willy-nilly,  endowed.  Our  pref- 
erences are,  within  limits,  fixed  for  us.  As  Santayana  writes: 

Reason  was  born,  as  it  has  since  discovered,  into  a  world  already 
wonderfully  organized,  in  which  it  found  its  precursor  in  what  is 
called  life,  its  seat  in  an  animal  body  of  unusual  plasticity,  and  its 
function  in  rendering  that  body's  volatile  instincts  and  sensations 
harmonious  with  one  another  and  with  the  outer  world  on  which 
they  depend.1 

Our  chief  aim  in  reflective  behavior  is  to  discover  ways  and 
means  by  which  a  harmony  may  be  achieved,  a  harmony  of 

1  Santayana:  Life  of  Reason,  vol.  I,  p.  40. 


MORALS  AND  MORAL  VALUATION         431 

those  very  instincts  which,  left  to  themselves,  would  be  in 
perpetual  collision,  frustrating  and  checking  each  other. 

Reflection  not  only  seeks  to  find  a  way  of  life  in  which  no 
natural  impulse  shall  be  frustrated,  but  it  is  through  reflection 
that  desires  are  broadened,  and  that  new  desires  arise.  Out 
of  reflection  upon  social  relations,  which  is  in  the  first  instance 
prompted  by  man's  innate  gregariousness,  arise  the  concep- 
tion of  ideal  friendship  and  the  thirst  for  and  movement 
toward  ideal  society.  Out  of  reflection  upon  the  animal 
passion  of  sex  may  rise  Dante's  beatific  vision  of  Beatrice. 
Conduct,  consciously  controlled,  finds  not  only  ways  by  which 
animal  desires  may  be  fulfilled  without  catastrophe;  it  trans- 
mutes animal  desires  into  ideal  values. 

Reflection  transforms  customs  into  principles.  In  reflec- 
tive behavior,  as  contrasted  with  that  which  is  controlled  by 
instinct  and  custom,  there  are  established  standards  of  action 
to  which  the  individual  consciously  conforms.  That  is,  in- 
stead of  merely  conforming  to  custom,  an  individual  comes  to 
act  upon  principles,  consciously  avowed  and  maintained.  A 
man  who  sets  up  a  standard  of  action  in  his  professional  or 
business  relations  is  not  conforming  to  an  arbitrary  code;  he  is 
living  according  to  a  way  of  life  which  he  has  deliberately  and 
consciously  chosen.  When  a  man  acts  upon  principles  be- 
cause he  has  consciously  adopted  them  in  view  of  the  conse- 
quences which  he  believes  to  be  associated  with  them,  he  will 
not  make  his  standard  an  idol.  Reflection  establishes  stand- 
ards, but  it  is  not  mastered  by  them.  It  is  persistently  critical. 
Standards  are  tools,  instruments  toward  the  achievement 
of  the  good.  They  are  merely  general  rules,  derived  from 
experience  and  retained  so  long  as  they  bear  desirable  fruits 
in  experience.  Moral  laws  are  not  regarded  as  arbitrary  and 
eternal,  but  as  good  only  in  so  far  as  they  produce  good.  A 
virtue  is  a  virtue  because  it  is  conducive  to  human  well-being. 
Standards  are  not  absolute,  but  relative  —  relative  to  their 
fruits  in  practice. 

Reflective  action  genuinely  moral.    Action  is  most  gen- 


482  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

uinely  moral  when  it  is  reflective.  It  is  only  then  that  the 
individual  is  a  conscious  and  controlling  agent.  It  is  only 
then  that  he  knows  what  he  is  doing.  When  a  machine  per- 
forms actions  that  happen  to  have  useful  results,  we  do  not 
speak  of  the  action  as  moral  or  virtuous.  And  action  in  con- 
formity with  custom  is  purely  mechanical  and  arbitrary.  An 
individual  who  is  merely  conforming  to  the  customary  is  no 
more  moral  than  an  automaton.  Given  a  certain  situation, 
he  makes  a  certain  response.  It  makes  no  difference  that  the 
act  happens  to  have  fruitful  consequences.  It  is  not  a  matter 
of  individual  choice,  of  conscious  volition.  Aristotle  long  ago 
stated  the  indispensable  conditions  of  moral  actions: 

It  is  necessary  that  the  agent  at  the  time  of  performing  them 
should  satisfy  certain  conditions,  i.e.  in  the  first  place  that  he  should 
know  what  he  is  doing,  secondly  that  he  should  deliberately  choose 
to  do  it  and  to  do  it  for  its  own  sake,  and  thirdly  that  he  should  do 
it  as  an  instance  of  a  fixed  and  immutable  moral  state.1 

Only  when  the  individual  is  aware  of  the  consequences  of 
his  action,  and  deliberately  chooses  those  consequences,  is 
there  any  individuality,  any  exhibition  of  choice  —  in  other 
words,  any  moral  value  in  the  act.  When  an  act  is  prompted 
by  mere  habit  and  custom,  we  have  an  evidence  of  an  indi- 
vidual's environment  rather  than  of  his  character.  Creatures 
thus  moved  by  capricious  and  arbitrary  impulse  are  hardly 
persons,  and  certainly  not  personalities.  They  are  played 
upon  by  every  whimsicality  of  circumstance;  their  own  char- 
acter makes  no  difference  at  all  in  the  world  in  which  they  live. 
To  act  reflectively  is  to  be  the  controlling  rather  than  the 
controlled  element  in  a  situation.  Action  guided  by  intelli- 
gence is  freed  from  the  enslavement  of  passion,  prejudice,  and 
routine.  It  becomes  genuinely  free.  The  individual,  eman- 
cipated from  emotion,  sense,  and  circumstance,  from  the  acci- 
dental environment  in  which  he  happens  to  be  born,  is  in  com- 
mand of  his  conduct.  "Though  shakes  the  magnet,  steady  is 

>  Aristotle:  Ethics,  book  n,  p.  42  (Weldon  translation). 


MORALS  AND  MORAL  VALUATION         433 

the  pole."  Morally,  at  least,  he  is  "  the  master  of  his  fate,  the 
captain  of  his  soul." 

Reflection  sets  up  ideal  standards.  Reflection  constantly 
sets  up  ideal  standards  by  which  current  codes  of  conduct  are 
judged  and  corrected.  It  is  clear  that  ideals  of  life,  even  when 
sincerely  entertained,  are  not  always  possible  of  immediate 
fulfillment.  Theory  tends  continually  to  outrun  practice, 
since  human  reflection  tends  to  set  up  goals  in  advance  of  its 
achievement.  For  many  individuals,  anxious  to  attain  im- 
mediate self-enhancement,  the  current  codes  are  not  criti- 
cized at  all,  but  are  taken  for  granted,  as  inevitable  and  irre- 
fragable bases  of  operation. 

Many  men,  perhaps  after  a  first  flush  of  altruistic  rebellion 
in  adolescence,  settle  down  with  more  or  less  complacency  to 
the  current  moral  codes.  They  do  in  Rome  as  the  Romans  do. 
They  may  have  an  intellectual  awareness  of  the  crassness,  the 
stupidity,  the  essential  injustice  and  inadequacy  of  the  codes 
by  which  men  in  contemporary  society  live,  but  they  may  also, 
out  of  selfish  preoccupation  with  their  own  interests,  let  things 
go  at  that.  If  the  established  ways  are  not  as  they  ought  to 
be,  at  least  they  are  as  they  are.  And  since  the  current  sys- 
tem is  the  one  by  which  a  man  must  live,  assent  is  the  better 
part  of  wisdom.  There  are  comparatively  few  who  persist  hi 
a  criticism  of  prevailing  standards,  or  who  are  troubled  very 
much  beyond  their  early  twenties  by  a  tormenting  conviction 
that  things  are  not  done  as  they  ought  to  be  done.  It  is  from 
the  few  who  realize  intellectually  the  inadequacies  of  prevail- 
ing customs,  and  are  emotionally  disturbed  by  them,  that 
moral  criticism  arises.  And  it  is  only  by  such  criticism  that 
moral  progress  is  made  possible.  "  The  duty  of  some  exercise 
of  discriminating  intelligence  as  to  existing  customs,  for  the 
sake  of  improvement  and  progress,  is  thus  a  mark  of  reflective 
morality  —  of  the  regime  of  conscience  as  over  against  cus- 
tom." » 

Reflection  is  thus  the  process  by  which  progress  is  made 

»  Dewey  and  Tufts:  Ethics,  pp.  181-82. 


484  *  VTHE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

possible,  although,  as  we  shall  presently  see,  it  is  not  thereby 
insured.  The  function  of  intelligence  is  precisely  to  indicate 
anticipated  goods,  "  to  imagine  a  future  which  is  the  pro- 
jection of  the  desirable  hi  the  present."  Even  the  best  or- 
dered life  or  society  reveals  some  maladjustment,  some  re- 
move, near  or  far,  from  perfection.  It  is  the  business  of 
reflection  and  imagination  to  note  the  discrepancy  between 
what  is,  and  what  ought  to  be,  and  assiduously  to  foster  the 
vision  of  the  latter,  so  that  hi  the  light  of  that  imagined  good, 
men's  ways  of  life  may  be  amended. 

Nor  does  the  setting-up  of  ideal  standards  mean  the  con- 
struction of  fruitless  Utopias.  Reflection  upon  the  present 
ways  of  life  and  the  prospect  of  their  improvement  does  not 
mean  a  mere  wistful  yearning  after  better  things.  It  means 
careful  inquiry  into  those  elements  of  established  ways  which 
may  be  incorporated  into  the  construction  of  the  ideal.  It 
means  the  resolute  application  of  intelligence  to  an  analysis  of 
present  maladjustments  in  the  interests  of  preserving  out  of 
inherited  and  current  ways  those  factors  which  point  towards 
the  goal  desired.  It  means  to  be  eager  for  perfection,  and 
sensitive  to  current  imperfections.  Moral  progress  demands  a 
vision  of  the  desirable  future,  and  a  persistent  and  discrimi- 
nating reflection  upon  the  means  of  its  attainment  out  of  the 
materials  of  the  present.  :-v-! 

The  defects  of  reflective  morality.  Reflection,  as  already 
pointed  out,  tends  to  stop  with  merely  destructive  criticism. 
Provoked  by  maladjustment  and  imperfection,  it  frequently 
goes  no  further  than  to  note  these,  with  cynicism  or  despair. 
Criticism  of  established  customs  and  ways  of  life  frequently 
rests  with  the  exhibition  of  absurdities  in  men's  ways,  finding 
refuge  in  laughter  or  rebellion.  There  is  no  one  so  cynical  as 
the  man  who  has  been  recently  wakened  out  of  dogmatic  and 
innocent  faith  in  the  traditions  to  which  he  has  been  reared. 

The  child  receives  from  the  herd  the  doctrines,  let  us  say,  that 
truthfulness  is  the  most  valuable  of  all  the  virtues,  that  honesty  is 
the  best  policy,  that  to  the  religious  man  death  has  no  terrors,  and 


MORALS  AND  MORAL  VALUATION         435 

that  there  is  in  store  a  future  life  of  perfect  happiness  and  delight. 
And  yet  experience  tells  him  with  persistence  that  truthfulness  as 
often  as  not  brings  him  punishment,  that  his  dishonest  playfellow  has 
as  good  if  not  a  better  time  than  he,  that  the  religious  man  shrinks 
from  death  with  as  great  a  terror  as  the  unbeliever,  is  as  broken- 
hearted by  bereavement,  and  as  determined  to  continue  his  held 
upon  this  imperfect  life  rather  than  trust  himself  to  what  he  declares 
to  be  the  certainty  of  future  bliss.  . .  .  Who  of  us  is  there  who  cannot 
remember  the  vague  feeling  of  dissatisfaction,  the  obscure  and  elu- 
sive sense  of  something  being  wrong,  which  is  left  by  these  and 
similar  conflicts  ? * 

A  little  reflection  is,  in  morals,  a  dangerous  thing.  It  dis- 
covers difficulties,  and  does  not  solve  them.  It  finds  that 
human  life  is  darkly  strewn  with  hypocrisies,  with  shams,  with 
makeshifts  and  compromises.  And  having  made  this  dis- 
covery, it  sighs  or  satirizes  or  forgets.  It  is  notorious  with 
what  frequency  men  "go  to  pieces"  when  they  are  loosed  from 
the  moorings  of  their  childhood  moralities,  before  they  have 
had  a  chance  to  acquire  new  and  more  reasonable  constraints. 
Plato,  in  protesting  that  young  men  should  not  study  phi- 
losophy too  early,  has  well  described  the  dangers  of  shallow 
analysis.2 

The  inadequacy  of  theory  in  moral  life.  Reflection  upon 
morals,  even  when  it  goes  beyond  the  stage  of  criticism  and 
proceeds  to  the  reconstruction  of  habits  and  customs  upon  a 
more  reasonable  basis,  is  yet  inadequate.  However  logically 
convincing  a  code  of  morals  may  be,  it  is  not  efficacious  simply 
as  logic.  In  Aristotle's  still  relevant  words: 

It  may  fairly  be  said  then  that  a  just  man  becomes  just  by  doing 

1  Trotter:  Instincts  of  the  Herd  in  Peace  and  War,  p.  49. 

1  "And  will  it  not  be  one  great  precaution  to  forbid  their  meddling  with  it 
[philosophy]  while  young?  For  I  suppose  you  have  noticed,  that  whenever 
boys  taste  dialectic  for  the  first  time,  they  pervert  it  into  an  amusement,  and 
always  employ  it  for  purposes  of  contradiction,  and  imitate  in  their  own  per- 
sons the  artifices  of  those  who  study  refutation,  —  delighting,  like  puppies, 
in  pulling  and  tearing  to  pieces  with  logic  any  one  who  comes  near  them.  .  .  . 
Hence,  when  they  have  experienced  many  triumphs  and  many  defeats,  they 
fall,  quickly  and  vehemently,  into  an  utter  disbelief  of  their  former  senti- 
ments: and  thereby  both  they  and  the  whole  cause  of  philosophy  have  been 
prejudiced  in  the  eyes  of  the  world."  (Plato:  Republic,  Golden  Treasury 
edition,  p.  267.) 


436  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

what  is  just  and  a  temperate  man  becomes  temperate  by  doing  what 
is  temperate,  and  if  a  man  did  not  so  act,  he  would  not  have  so  much 
as  a  chance  of  becoming  good.  But  most  people,  instead  of  doing 
such  actions,  take  refuge  in  theorizing;  they  imagine  that  they  are 
philosophers  and  that  philosophy  will  make  them  virtuous;  in  fact 
they  behave  like  people  who  listen  attentively  to  their  doctors,  but 
never  do  anything  that  their  doctors  tell  them.  But  it  is  as  improb- 
able that  a  healthy  state  of  the  soul  will  be  produced  by  this  kind  of 
philosophizing  as  that  a  healthy  state  of  the  body  will  be  produced 
by  this  kind  of  medical  treatment.1 

Moral  standards,  in  order  to  be  effective,  must  have  emo- 
tional support  and  be  constantly  applied.  Men  must  be  in 
love  with  the  good,  if  good  is  to  be  their  habitual  practice. 
And  only  when  the  good  is  an  habitual  practice,  can  men  be 
said  to  be  living  a  moral  life  instead  of  merely  subscribing 
verbally  to  a  set  of  moral  ideals.  Justice,  honesty,  charity, 
mercy,  benevolence,  these  are  names  for  types  of  behavior, 
and  are  real  in  so  far  as  they  do  describe  men's  actions.  As 
Aristotle  says,  in  another  connection:  "A  person  must  be 
utterly  senseless  if  he  does  not  know  that  moral  states  are 
formed  by  the  exercise  of  the  powers  in  one  way  or  another." 
The  virtues  are  not  static  or  frozen;  they  are  names  we  give 
to  varieties  of  action,  and  are  exhibited,  as  they  exist,  only  in 
action.2 

1  Aristotle:  Ethics,  book  n,  chap,  m,  pp.  42-43  (Weldon  translation). 

•  "But  the  virtues  we  acquire  by  first  exercising  them,  as  is  the  case  with 
all  the  arts,  for  it  is  by  doing  what  we  ought  to  do  when  we  have  learned  the 
arts,  that  we  learn  the  arts  themselves;  we  become,  e.g.  builders  by  building, 
and  harpists  by  playing  the  harp.  Similarly  it  is  by  doing  just  acts  that  we 
become  just,  by  doing  temperate  acts  that  we  become  temperate,  by  doing 
courageous  acts  that  we  become  courageous.  .  .  .  Again  the  causes  and  means 
by  which  any  virtue  is  produced,  and  by  which  it  is  destroyed,  are  the  same; 
and  it  is  equally  so  with  any  art;  for  it  is  by  playing  the  harp  that  both  good 
and  bad  harpists  are  produced,  and  the  case  of  builders  and  all  other  artisans 
is  similar,  as  it  is  by  building  well  that  they  will  be  good  builders,  and  by 
building  badly  that  they  will  be  bad  builders.  ...  It  is  by  acting  in  such 
transactions  as  take  place  between  man  and  man  that  we  become  either  just 
or  unjust.  It  is  by  acting  in  the  face  of  danger  and  habituating  ourselves  to 
fear  or  courage  that  we  become  either  cowardly  or  courageous.  It  is  much 
the  same  with  our  desires  and  angry  passions.  Some  people  become  tem- 
perate and  gentle,  others  become  licentious  and  passionate,  according  as 
they  conduct  themselves  in  one  way  or  another  way  in  particular  circum- 
stances." (Aristotle:  Ethics,  pp.  35-36,  Weldon  translation.) 


MORALS  AND  MORAL  VALUATION         437 

The  mere  preaching  of  virtue  will  thus  not  produce  its 
practice.  Those  standards  which  reflection  discovers,  how- 
ever useful  in  the  guidance  of  life,  are  not  sufficient  to  im- 
prove human  conduct.  They  must,  as  noted  above,  be  emo- 
tionally sanctioned  to  become  habitual,  and,  on  the  other 
hand,  only  if  they  are  early  acquired  habits,  will  the  emo- 
tions associated  with  them  be  pleasant  rather  than  painful. 
"Accordingly  the  difference  between  one  training  of  habits 
and  another  from  early  days  is  not  a  light  matter,  but  is  seri- 
ous or  rather  all-important."1  Ideals  of  life,  when  they  re- 
main mere  closet-ideals,  are  interesting  academic  specimens, 
but  are  hardly  effective  hi  the  helpful  amendment  of  the  lives 
of  mankind.  "Whoever  contemplates  the  world  in  the  light 
of  an  ideal,"  writes  Bertrand  Russell,  "whether  what  he  seeks 
be  intellect  or  art,  or  love,  or  simple  happiness,  or  all  together, 
must  feel  a  great  sorrow  in  the  evils  which  men  allow  need- 
lessly to  continue  and  —  if  he  is  a  man  of  force  and  vital 
energy  —  an  urgent  desire  to  lead  men  to  the  realization  of 
the  good  which  inspires  his  creative  vision."  Great  thinkers 
upon  morals  have  not  been  content  to  work  out  interesting 
systems  which  were  logically  conclusive,  abstract  methods  of 
attaining  happiness.  They  have  worked  out  their  ethical 
systems  as  genuinely  preferred  ways  of  We,  they  .have  offered 
them  as  solutions  of  the  difficulties  men  experience  hi  control- 
ling their  own  passions  and  hi  adapting  their  desires  to  the 
conditions  which  limit  their  fulfillment. 

"Our  present  study,"  writes  Aristotle,  "is  not,  like  other 
studies,  purely  speculative  in  its  intention;  for  the  object 
of  our  inquiry  is  not  to  know  the  nature  of  virtue,  but  to 
become  ourselves  virtuous,  as  that  is  the  sole  benefit  which 
it  conveys." 2  Reflection  upon  morals  can  map  out  the  road; 
it  cannot  make  people  travel  it.  For  that,  an  early  habitu- 
ation  to  the  good  is  necessary. 

But  it  should  be  noted  further  that  the  greatest  ethical 
reformers  have  not  been  those  who  have  convinced  men 

»  Aristotle :fcc.  tit.,  p.  36.  *  Ibid.,  p.  36. 


438  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

through  the  impeccability  of  their  logic.  They  have  been 
rather  the  supreme  seers,  the  Hebrew  prophets,  Christ,  Saint 
Francis,  who  have  won  followers  not  so  much  by  the  conclu- 
siveness  of  their  demonstration  as  through  the  persuasive 
fervor  and  splendor  of  their  vision. 

The  danger  of  intellectualism  in  morals.  There  has  been 
throughout  the  history  of  ethical  theory  a  tendency  to  over- 
simplify life  by  cramping  it  into  the  categories  fixed  by  reason. 
Reflection  tends  to  set  up  certain  standards  which  the  infi- 
nite variety  of  human  experience  tends  to  outrun.  In  the  mere 
fact  of  setting  up  generalizations,  reflection  is  arbitrary.  Any 
generalization,  by  virtue  of  the  very  fact  that  it  does  apply 
to  a  wide  variety  of  situations,  must  forego  concern  with  the 
peculiar  colors  and  qualities  inhering  in  any  specific  experi- 
ence. Various  ethical  writers  have  set  up  general  rules,  which 
they  have  attempted  to  apply  to  life  with  indiscriminate  ruth- 
lessness.  They  have  tried  to  shear  down  the  endless  rich 
variety  of  human  situations  to  fit  the  categories  which  they 
assume  to  start  with.  Unsophisticated  men  have  complained 
with  justice  against  the  recurrent  attempts  of  moralists  to  set 
up  absolute  laws,  standards,  virtues,  which  were  to  be  applied 
regardless  of  the  specific  circumstances  of  specific  situations. 
It  was  such  formalism  that  Aristotle  protested  against 
throughout  his  Ethics. 

There  is  the  same  sort  of  uncertainty  with  regard  to  good  things, 
as  it  often  happens  that  injuries  result  from  them;  thus  there  have 
been  cases  in  which  people  were  ruined  by  wealth,  or  again  by  cour- 
age. As  our  subjects  [moral  inquiries]  then  and  our  premises  are  of 
this  nature,  we  must  be  content  to  indicate  the  truth  roughly,  and 
in  outline.1 

He  points  out  repeatedly  that  situations  are  specific,  that 
laws  or  generalization  can  only  be  tentatively  made. 

Questions  of  practice  and  expediency  no  more  admit  of  invariable 
rules  than  questions  of  health.  But  if  this  is  true  of  general  reasoning 
upon  Ethics,  still  more  true  is  it  that  scientific  exactitude  is  impossi- 

1  Aristotle:  loc.  cit.,  pp.  3-4. 


MORALS  AND  MORAL  VALUATION          439 

ble  in  reasoning  upon  particular  ethical  cases.  They  do  not  fall 
under  any  art  or  any  law,  but  the  agents  themselves  are  always 
bound  to  pay  regard  to  the  circumstances  of  the  moment,  as  much 
as  in  medicine  or  navigation.1 

Instead  of  framing  absolute  general  rules,  Aristotle  points 
out  those  specific  conditions  which  must  be  taken  into  ac- 
count in  any  act  that  can,  without  quibbling,  be  called  good 
or  virtuous. 

It  is  possible  to  go  too  far,  or  not  to  go  far  enough,  in  respect  of 
fear,  courage,  desire,  anger,  pity,  and  pleasure  and  pain  generally, 
and  the  excess  and  the  deficiency  are  alike  wrong;  but  to  experience 
these  emotions  at  the  right  time,  and  on  the  right  occasions  and 
towards  the  right  persons,  and  for  the  right  causes  and  in  the  right 
manner  is  the  mean  or  the  supreme  good,  which  is  characteristic  of 
virtue.1 

Reflection  thus  unduly  simplifies  the  moral  problem  by 
setting  up  general  standards  which  are  not  adequate  to  the 
multiple  variety  of  specific  situations  which  constitute  human 
experience.  But  in  reasoning  upon  the  conduct  of  life,  there 
has  been  displayed,  furthermore,  by  ethical  writers  an  inveter- 
ate tendency  to  identify  the  processes  of  life  with  the  process 
of  reason.  One  may  cite  as  a  classic  instance  of  this  point 
of  view  the  ethical  theory  of  Jeremy  Bentham  and  the  Utili- 
tarians. According  to  the  Utilitarians  human  beings  judged 
acts  in  terms  of  their  utility,  as  measured  in  the  amount  of 
pleasure  and  pain  produced  by  an  action.  The  individual 
figured  out  the  pleasures  and  pains  that  would  be  the  conse- 
quences of  his  action.  We  shall  in  the  next  section  examine 
this  point  of  view  in  more  detail;  we  are  referring  to  it  here 
simply  as  an  illustration  of  intellectualizing  of  morals.  Few 
individuals  go  through  anything  remotely  resembling  the 
"hedonic  calculus"  laid  down  by  Bentham.8  The  individual 

>  Aristotle:  loc.  tit.,  p.  37.  »  Ibid.,  p.  46. 

•The  hedonic  calculus  of  Bentham  was,  briefly,  the  following:  "Every 
proposed  act  is  to  be  viewed  with  reference  to  its  probable  consequences,  in 
(1)  intensity  of  pleasures  and  pains,  (2)  their  duration,  (3)  their  certainty  or 
uncertainty,  (4)  their  nearness  or  remoteness,  (5)  their  fecundity,  i.e.,  the 
tendency  of  a  pleasure  to  be  followed  by  others,  or  a  pain  by  other  paioa; 


440  THE  CAREER  OP  REASON 

is  not  a  static  being,  mathematically  considering  the  amount 
of  pleasure  and  pain  associated  with  the  performance  of  spe- 
cific actions.  We  are,  in  the  vast  majority  of  cases,  prompted 
to  specific  responses,  not  by  any  mathematical  considerations 
of  pleasures  and  pains,  but  by  the  immediate  urgency  of  in- 
stinctive and  habitual  desires.  Reflection  arises  in  the  proc- 
ess of  adjustment  of  competing  impulses,  in  the  effecting  of 
a  harmony  between  various  desires  that  are  much  more  pri- 
mary and  fundamental  than  the  reflection  that  arises  upon 
them.  We  may  largely  agree  with  McDougall  when  he 
writes: 

We  may  say,  then,  that  directly  or  indirectly,  the  instincts  are  the 
prime  movers  of  all  human  activity;  by  the  conative  or  impulsive 
force  of  some  instinct  (or  of  some  habit  derived  from  an  instinct) 
every  train  of  thought,  however  cold  and  passionless  it  may  seem, 
is  borne  along  towards  its  end,  and  every  bodily  activity  is  initiated 
and  sustained.  The  instinctive  impulses  determine  the  ends  of  all 
activities  and  supply  the  driving  power  by  which  all  mental  activities 
are  sustained;  and  all  the  complex  intellectual  apparatus  of  the  most 
highly  developed  mind  is  but  a  means  towards  these  ends,  is  but  the 
instrument  by  which  these  impulses  seek  their  satisfactions,  while 
pleasure  and  pain  do  but  serve  to  guide  them  in  their  choice  of  the 
means. 

Take  away  these  instinctive  dispositions  with  their  powerful  im- 
pulses, and  the  organism  would  become  incapable  of  activity  of 
any  kind;  it  would  lie  inert  and  motionless,  like  a  wonderful  clock- 
work whose  mainspring  had  been  removed,  or  a  steam-engine  whose 
fires  had  been  drawn.1 

Reflection  is  last  rather  than  first;  it  is  provoked  and  sus- 
tained by  instinctive  desires,  and  is  the  means  whereby  they 
may  be  fulfilled. 

(6)  their  purity,  i.e.,  the  tendency  of  a  pleasure  to  be  followed  by  pains  and 
vice  versa;  (7)  their  extent,  that  is,  the  number  or  range  of  persons  whose 
happiness  is  affected  —  with  reference  to  whose  pleasures  and  pains  each 
one  of  the  first  six  items  ought  in  strictness  also  to  be  calculated.  Then  sum 
up  all  the  pleasures  which  stand  to  the  credit  side  of  the  account;  add  the 
pains  which  are  the  debit  items,  or  liabilities,  on  the  other;  then  take  their 
algebraic  sum,  and  the  balance  of  it  on  the  side  of  pleasure  will  be  the  good 
tendency  of  the  act  upon  the  whole."  (Dewey  and  Tufts:  Ethics,  pp.  275-76.) 

1  McDougall:  Social  Psychology,  p.  44. 


MORALS  AND  MORAL  VALUATION         441 

Types  of  moral  theory.  Reflection  upon  morals  produces 
certain  characteristic  types  of  moral  theory.  These  may  be 
classified,  although,  because  of  the  complexity  of  factors  in- 
volved in  any  moral  theory,  cross-division  is  inevitable.  But 
in  the  long  history  of  human  reflection  upon  a  reasonable  way 
of  life,  certain  divisions  stand  out  clearly.  The  first  great 
contrast  that  may  be  mentioned  is  that  existing  between  Abso- 
lutism and  Relativism,  the  contrast,  namely,  between  theo- 
ries of  morals  that  regard  right  and  wrong  as  absolute  and 
a  priori,  unconditioned  by  time,  place,  and  circumstance;  and 
theories  of  morals  that  judge  the  rightness  and  wrongness  of 
acts  in  terms  of  their  consequences,  in  the  happiness  or  wel- 
fare of  human  beings,  however  that  be  conceived.  These  two 
points  of  view  represent  radically  different  temperaments  and 
differ  radically  in  their  fruits.  The  contrast  will  stand  out 
more  clearly  after  a  brief  discussion  of  each. 

Absolutism.  Absolutistic  moralities  are  distinguished  by 
their  maintenance  of  the  fundamental  moral  idea  of  Duty, 
Duty  consisting  in  an  obligation  to  conform  to  the  Right. 
Implied  in  this  obligation  of  absolute  conformity  is  the  con- 
ception that  the  Right  is  unalterable,  universally  binding,  and 
imperative.  Good  and  evil  are  not  discoverable  in  experi- 
ence, but  are  standards  to  which  human  beings  must  in  experi- 
ence conform.  The  right  is  not  simply  the  desirable  —  fre- 
quently it  is,  from  the  standpoint  of  impulses  and  emotion, 
the  undesirable;  but  it  is  a  universal,  an  a  priori  standard  to 
which  human  beings  must  in  experience  conform.  Morals 
are  "eternal  and  immutable"  principles,  absolutely  irrefut- 
able and  indefeasible  in  experience.  We  shall,  in  approaching 
the  problem  from  the  standpoint  of  moral  knowledge,  see 
that  most  absolutist  moral  philosophers  have  also  supposed 
that  these  eternal  principles  of  right  action  are  intuitively  per- 
ceived. What  concerns  us  in  this  connection,  however,  is  the 
nature  of  this  absolutistic  conception,  and  its  bearings  on  the 
governance  of  human  conduct. 

According  to  the  absolutist,  the  "goodness"  of  an  act  is 


442  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

not  at  all  affected  by  its  immediate  consequences.  The  value 
of  a  good  or  a  mor&l  act  does  not  consist  in  its  results.  The 
moral  value  of  an  act  consists  in  the  "good-will"  of  the  agent, 
and  the  "good-will"  of  the  agent  consists  in  his  willing  and 
conscious  conformity  to  the  absolute  moral  principle  involved. 
"  Nothing  is  fundamentally  good  but  the  good-will."  That  is, 
an  act  to  be  moral,  must  be  the  conscious  conformity  of  a 
rational  agent  to  the  moral  law,  which  he  recognizes  to  be 
morally  binding.  To  Kant,  the  classic  exponent  of  this  posi- 
tion, an  act  performed  out  of  mere  inclination,  if  not  immoral, 
certainly  was  not  moral.  A  moral  act  could  only  flow  from 
reason,  and  reason  would  dictate  to  an  individual  conformity 
to  the  moral  law,  which  was  a  law  of  reason.  Conduct  that 
is  determined  by  mere  circumstance  is  not  moral  conduct. 
Morality  is  above  the  domain  of  circumstance.  And  the 
moral  agent  is  above  the  defeats  and  compromises  imposed 
by  tune  and  place.  He  is  a  free  agent,  that  is,  morally  free. 
He  accepts  no  commands,  except  those  of  reason.  A  man,  in 
following  impulse  or  being  dictated  to  by  circumstance,  is  a 
mere  animal  or  a  machine.  He  is  only  a  reasonable,  that  is,  a 
moral  being,  when  he  conforms  to  the  laws  which  are  above 
time  and  place  and  circumstance,  and  above  the  whirls  and 
eddies  of  personal  inclination. 

Concretely,  one  may  take  the  absolutistic  attitude  toward 
a  specific  virtue:  honesty.  The  morality  of  telling  the  truth 
consists  hi  a  conscious  conformity  to  the  moral  standard  of 
honesty  in  the  face  of  all  deflections  of  inclination  and  par- 
ticular situations.  It  makes  no  iota  of  difference  what  the 
result  of  telling  the  truth  in  a  particular  instance  may  be. 
It  makes  no  difference  what  urgent  and  plausible  and  prac- 
tically decent  reason  one  has  for  not  telling  the  truth.  The 
truth  must  be  told,  as  justice  must  be  done,  though  the 
heavens  fall.  We  have  a  case,  let  us  suppose,  where  telling 
bad  news  to  a  very  sick  man  may  kill  him.  That  temporally 
disastrous  consequence  is,  from  an  absolutistic  point  of  view, 
a  totally  irrelevant  consideration,  as  is  also  the  pain  we  feel 


MORALS  AND  MORAL  VALUATION         443 

in  telling  the  truth  under  such  conditions.  But  the  single 
moral  course  is  clear;  there  is  no  alternative;  in  absolutistic 
morals  there  are  no  extenuating  circumstances.  The  truth 
must  be  told,  whatever  be  the  consequences.  For  to  tell 
the  truth  is  a  universal  moral  law,  and  conformity  to  that  law 
a  universal  moral  obligation. 

The  defects  of  this  position,  if  they  are  not  obvious  from 
its  bare  statement,  will  become  clearer  from  the  analysis  of 
the  relativist  or  teleological  positions.  But  its  specific  virtues 
deserve  attention.  The  Kantian  or  absolutistic  position,  by 
its  emphasis  on  the  indefeasible  and  unwavering  character  of 
moral  action,  suggests  something  that  rouses  admiration  from 
common  sense,  unsophisticated  by  moral  theory.  We  do  not 
think  highly  of  the  man  who  is  at  the  mercy  of  every  chance 
appetite,  or  every  casual  incident.  Morality  must  be  con- 
stituted of  more  enduring  stuff.  We  do  not  deeply  admire  the 
caliber  of  a  man  who  yields  to  every  pressing  exigency,  sur- 
rendering thereby  every  ideal,  principle,  or  value,  the  attain- 
ment of  which  demands  some  postponement  or  some  privation 
of  the  fulfillment  of  immediate  desire.  The  man  who  compro- 
mises his  political  ideals  in  the  attainment  of  his  personal 
success,  is  a  scornful  figure  morally.  And  we  estimate  more 
highly  the  character  of  an  individual  who  can  persist  in  the 
strenuous  attainment  of  an  ideal  in  the  face  of  the  counter- 
inclination  of  passing  pleasures.  In  its  emphasis  on  the  auton- 
omy and  integrity  of  moral  action,  even  its  opponents  credit 
the  Kantian  or  absolutistic  position  with  having  hit  upon  a 
genuinely  moral  aspect  of  human  action.  It  is,  as  we  shall 
see,  in  the  rigidity  and  formalism  of  its  conception,  in  its 
fanatical  allegiance  to  a  priori  standards,  and  its  absolute 
sanctification  of  given  ways  of  action,  that  the  theory  is 
questionable. 

Relativistic  or  teleological  morality.  Contrasted  with  the 
theories  of  morals  that  maintain  that  right  and  wrong  are 
absolute  and  eternal  principles  unaffected  by  time,  place,  and 
circumstance,  are  those  moral  philosophies  which  set  out 


444  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

explicitly  to  discover  a  way  of  life  by  which  human  happiness 
in  this  world  of  time  and  place  and  circumstance  may  be 
attained.  To  know  what  is  the  supreme  good,  and  to  dis- 
cover what  are  the  means  of  its  attainment,  are,  as  Aristotle 
long  ago  and  justly  observed,  of  great  importance  in  the  regu- 
lation of  life.  It  is  this  knowledge  and  discovery  that  consti- 
tute, according  to  Aristotle,  the  business  of  ethics.  Regard- 
ing this  "supreme  good,"  we  may  quote  his  own  expressions: 

We  speak  of  that  which  is  sought  after  for  its  own  sake,  as  more 
final  than  that  which  is  sought  after  as  a  means  to  something  else; 
we  speak  of  that  which  is  never  desired  as  a  means  to  something  else 
as  more  final  than  the  things  which  are  desired  both  in  themselves 
and  as  means  to  something  else;  and  we  speak  of  a  thing  as  absolutely 
final,  if  it  is  always  desired  in  itself  and  never  as  a  means  to  something 
else. 

It  seems  that  happiness  preeminently  answers  to  this  description, 
as  we  always  desire  happiness  for  its  own  sake,  and  never  as  a  means 
to  something  else,  whereas  we  desire  honour,  pleasure,  intellect,  and 
every  virtue,  partly  for  their  own  sakes,  .  .  .  but  partly  also  as  being 
means  to  happiness,  because  we  suppose  they  will  prove  the  instru- 
ments of  happiness.  Happiness,  on  the  other  hand,  nobody  desires 
for  the  sake  of  these  things,  nor  indeed  as  a  means  to  anything  else 
at  all.1 

Happiness  may,  as  Aristotle  observes,  be  differently  con- 
ceived by  different  people.  To  some  it  may  mean  a  life  of 
sensual  enjoyment;  to  some  men  a  life  of  money-making. 
But  it  is  the  attainment  of  complete  satisfaction  and  self- 
realization  by  the  individual  that  ethical  theories  should 
promote ;  for  such  self-realization  constitutes  happiness.  It  is 
sufficient  here  to  point  out  that  all  so-called  "teleological" 
or  "relativistic"  moralities,  insist  that  the  morality  of  an 
action  is  not  determinable  a  priori,  or  absolutely.  They  are 
relativistic  in  the  sense  that  they  insist  on  taking  into  account 
the  specific  circumstances  of  action  in  the  determination  of  its 
moral  value.  They  are  teleological  in  that  they  insist  on  meas- 
uring the  moral  value  of  an  action  in  terms  of  its  consequences 

1  Aristotle:  Zoc.  cit.,  pp.  13-14. 


MORALS  AND  MORAL  VALUATION         445 

in  human  well-being  or  happiness,  however  those  be  conceived. 
To  revert  to  the  illustration  used  in  connection  with  the  dis- 
cussion of  Absolutism,  to  lie  in  order  to  save  a  life  would,  on 
this  basis,  be  construed  as  good  rather  than  evil. 

Utilitarianism.  One  of  the  classic  statements  of  relativistic 
and  teleological  morality  is  Utilitarianism.  According  to  the 
Utilitarians  the  criterion  of  the  worth  of  a  deed  was  to  be 
found  in  an  estimation  of  the  relative  pleasures  and  pains  pro- 
duced by  it.  The  view  is  thus  stated  by  John  Stuart  Mill: 

The  creed  which  accepts  as  the  foundation  of  morals,  Utility,  or 
the  Greatest  Happiness  Principle,  holds  that  actions  are  right  in 
proportion  as  they  tend  to  promote  happiness,  wrong  as  they  tend  to 
produce  the  reverse  of  happiness.  By  happiness  is  intended  pleasure, 
and  the  absence  of  pain ;  by  unhappiness,  pain  and  the  privation  of 
pleasure.  To  give  a  clear  view  of  the  moral  standard  set  up  by  the 
theory,  much  more  requires  to  be  said;  in  particular,  what  things  it 
includes  in  the  ideas  of  pain  and  pleasure ;  and  to  what  extent  this 
is  left  an  open  question.  But  these  supplementary  explanations  do 
not  affect  the  theory  of  life  on  which  this  theory  of  morality  is 
grounded  —  namely,  that  pleasure  and  freedom  from  pain  are  the 
only  things  desirable  as  ends;  and  that  all  desirable  things  (which 
are  as  numerous  in  the  utilitarian  as  in  any  other  scheme)  are  desir- 
able either  for  the  pleasure  inherent  in  themselves,  or  as  means  to 
the  promotion  of  pleasure  and  the  prevention  of  pain.1 

Simply  stated,  Utilitarianism  says:  "Add  together  all  the 
pleasures  promised  by  a  contemplated  course  of  action,  then 
the  pains,  and  note  the  difference;  the  nature  of  the  difference 
will  determine  whether  the  course  is  right  or  wrong."  Pleas- 
ures and  pains  are  thus  conceived  as  being  open  to  quantita- 
tive determination.  Action  is  determined  by  mathematical 
calculation  in  advance  of  the  pleasure  and  pain  produced  by 
any  action.  Bentham's  name  is  particularly  associated  with 
the  dictum,  "the  greatest  happiness  for  the  greatest  number." 
But  two  implications  of  this  doctrine  must  be  taken  into 
account,  at  least  as  Bentham  interpreted  it.  The  greatest 
happiness  meant  the  maximum  amount  of  pleasure.  And 

i  Mill:  Utilitarianism  (London,  1907),  pp.  9-10. 


446  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

each  individual  could  desire  the  greatest  happiness,  only  in 
so  far  as  it  contributed  to  his  own  happiness  or  pleasure. 
And,  for  Bentham,  as  for  all  strict  Utilitarians,  there  was  no 
qualitative  distinction  hi  the  amounts  of  pleasure.  "The 
quantity  being  the  same,"  said  Bentham,  "pushpin  is  as  good 
as  poetry." 

Utilitarianism  is  here  considered  as  an  instance  of  a  type 
of  ethical  theory  that  set  human  happiness  as  the  end,  and 
made  its  judgments  of  actions  depend  on  their  consequences 
in  human  welfare.  It  must  be  pointed  out,  however,  that  its 
conception  of  happiness  was  dependent  on  a  psychology  now 
almost  unanimously  recognized  as  false:  Bentham's  assump- 
tion that  the  reason  human  beings  performed  certain  actions 
was  because  they  desired  certain  pleasures,  completely  re- 
verses the  actual  situation.  It  puts,  as  it  were,  the  cart 
before  the  horse.  Pleasure  is  psychologically  the  accompani- 
ment, what  psychologists  call  the  "feeling  tone"  of  the  satis- 
faction of  any  instinctive  or  habitual  impulse.  Human  be- 
ings have  certain  native  or  habitual  tendencies  to  action,  and 
pleasure  attends  the  performance  of  these.  It  is  not  be- 
cause we  want  the  pleasure  of  eating,  that  we  decide  to  eat ; 
we  want  to  eat,  and  eating  is  therefore  pleasant. 

If  the  good  Samaritan  cared  about  the  present  feelings  or  the  fu- 
ture welfare  of  the  man  fallen  among  thieves,  it  would  no  doubt  give 
him  some  pleasure  to  satisfy  that  desire  for  his  welfare;  if  he  had 
desired  his  good  as  little  as  the  priest  and  the  Levite,  there  would 
have  been  nothing  to  suggest  the  strange  idea  that  to  relieve  him,  to 
bind  up  his  nasty  wounds,  and  to  spend  money  upon  him,  would  be 
a  source  of  more  pleasure  to  himself  than  to  pass  by  on  the  other  side 
and  spend  the  money  upon  himself.  In  the  case  of  the  great  major- 
ity of  our  pleasures,  it  will  probably  be  found  that  the  desire  is  the 
condition  of  the  pleasure,  not  the  pleasure  of  the  desire.1 

As  has  been  previously  pointed  out  in  this  and  other  chap- 
ters, action  does  not  start  with  reflection  upon  pleasures,  or, 
for  that  matter,  upon  any  thing  else.  Action  is  fundamentally 

'Rashdall:  Ethics,  p.  18. 


MORALS  AND  MORAL  VALUATION         447 

initiated  by  instinctive  promptings,  or  the  promptings  of 
habit.  Satisfaction  or  pleasure  attends  the  fulfillment  of  any 
inborn  or  acquired  impulse,  and  dissatisfaction  or  pain  its 
obstruction  or  frustration.  Apart  from  the  satisfactions 
experienced  in  the  fulfillment  in  action  of  such  impulses, 
pleasure  does  not  exist.  Actions,  situations,  persons,  or  ideas 
can  be  pleasant  to  us,  but  "pleasure"  as  a  separate  objective 
entity  cannot  be  said  to  exist  at  all.  The  Utilitarians,  again, 
made  the  intellectualist  error  of  supposing  that  men  dispas- 
sionately and  mathematically  weighed  the  consequences  of 
their  actions,  whereas  their  relative  impulsions  to  action  are 
determined  by  the  instincts  they  inherit  and  the  habits  they 
have  already  acquired. 

Despite  its  false  psychology,  Utilitarianism  does  stand  out 
as  one  of  the  great  classic  attempts  to  build  an  ethical  theory 
squarely  designed  to  promote  human  happiness.  An  execu- 
tion of  the  same  worthy  intention,  more  acceptable  to  those 
trained  in  the  modern  psychology  of  instinct,  is  that  moral 
conception  variously  known  as  Behaviorism,  or  Energism, 
a  point  of  view  maintained  by  thinkers  from  Aristotle  to 
Professor  Dewey  in  our  own  day.  All  behavioristic  theories 
take  the  position  that  in  order  to  find  out  what  is  good  for 
man,  we  must  begin  by  finding  out  what  man  is.  In  order  to 
discover  what  will  give  man  satisfaction,  we  must  discover 
what  his  natural  impulses  and  capacities  are.  In  the  utiliza- 
tion and  fulfillment  of  these  will  man  find  his  most  complete 
realization  and  happiness.  The  standard  of  goodness,  there- 
fore, is  measured  in  terms  of  the  extent  to  which  action  pro- 
motes a  complete  and  harmonious  utilization  of  natural  im- 
pulses and  natural  capacities.  Ethics,  from  such  a  viewpoint, 
cannot  set  up  arbitrary  standards,  but  must  form  its  stand- 
ards by  inquiries  into  the  fundamental  and  natural  needs  and 
desires  of  men.  Instead  of  laying  down  eternal  principles  to 
which  human  beings  must  be  made  to  conform,  it  must  derive 
its  principles  from  observations  of  human  experience,  and  test 
them  there.  The  good  is  what  does  good;  the  bad  what  does 


448  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

harm.  And  what  is  good  for  men,  and  bad  for  men,  depends 
not  on  rigid  a  priori  intellectual  standards,  but  on  the  original 
nature  which  is  each  man's  inheritance. 

To  base  ethics  upon  an  analysis  of  the  conditions  of  human 
nature,  as  scientific  inquiry  reveals  it,  carries  with  it  two  impli- 
cations. It  means  that  nothing  that  is  shown  to  be  a  part  of 
man's  inevitable  original  equipment  can  with  justice  to  man's 
welfare  be  ruled  out.  Every  instinct  taken  by  itself  is  as  good 
as  any  other.  It  is  only  when  one  instinct  competes  with 
another,  so  that  excessive  indulgence  of  one,  as,  for  example, 
that  of  sex  or  pugnacity,  interferes  with  all  a  man's  other 
instincts  or  interests  (or  with  those  of  other  men),  that  an 
instinct  becomes  evil.  It  means,  secondly,  that  since  indi- 
viduals differ,  and  since  situations  are  infinitely  various  and 
individual,  no  arbitrary  and  fixed  laws  can  be  laid  down  as 
fundamental  eternal  principles. 

Moral  knowledge.  The  contrast  between  the  two  types 
of  morality  that  have  been  historically  current  may  be  ap- 
proached from  the  standpoint  of  moral  knowledge.  That  is, 
moral  theories  may  be  classified  on  the  basis  of  their  answer 
to  the  question:  How  do  moral  judgments  arise?  The  chief 
contrast  to  be  drawn  is  that  between  Intuitionalism  on  the 
one  hand,  and  Empiricism  on  the  other.  Intuitionalism  holds 
briefly  that  the  moral  quality  of  an  act  is  intuitively  perceived, 
and  is  recognized  apart  from  experience  of  its  consequences. 
The  empirical  theory  holds  that  moral  judgments  come  to  be 
attached  to  acts  as  a  result  of  experience,  and  particularly 
experiences  of  the  approval  and  disapproval  of  other  people. 
The  contrast  will  again  become  clearer  by  a  discussion  of  each 
theory  separately. 

Intuitionalism.  Intuitionalism  takes  two  chief  forms.  The 
first,  Perceptual  Intuitionalism,  as  Sidgwick  calls  it,  holds  that 
the  Tightness  of  each  particular  act  is  immediately  known. 
The  second,  called  by  the  same  author  Dogmatic  Intuition- 
alism, holds  that  the  general  laws  of  common-sense  moral- 
ity are  immediately  perceived.  The  popular  view  of  "con- 


MORALS  AND  MORAL  VALUATION         449 

science,"  well  illustrates  the  first-mentioned  position  of  the 
Intuitionalist. 

We  commonly  think  of  the  dictates  of  conscience  as  relating  to 
particular  actions,  and  when  a  man  is  bidden  in  a  particular  case  to 
"trust  to  his  conscience,"  it  commonly  seems  to  be  meant  that  he 
should  exercise  a  faculty  of  judging  morally  this  particular  case 
without  reference  to  general  rules,  and  even  in  opposition  to  conclu- 
sions obtained  by  systematic  deduction  from  such  rules.1 

Conscience,  this  organ  of  immediate  moral  perception,  is 
frequently  taken  to  be  divinely  given  at  birth.  There  is  no 
one  so  certain  or  immovable  as  the  man  whose  actions  are 
dictated  by  his  "conscience."  He  does  not  have  to  think 
about  his  actions;  he  knows  immediately  what  is  right  and 
what  is  wrong.  The  intuitionalist  does  not  go  into  the  nat- 
ural history  of  scruples  for  or  against  the  performance  of 
certain  actions.  He  takes  these  immediate  aversions  or 
promptings  to  act  as  the  revelations  of  immediate  and  unques- 
tionable knowledge,  frequently  presumed  to  be  divinely  im- 
planted. Most  Intuitionalists  hold  not  that  we  experience  an 
immediate  intuition  of  the  lightness  or  wrongness  of  action 
in  every  single  situation,  but  that  the  common  rules  of  moral- 
ity, such  common  rules  as  good  faith  and  veracity,  are  imme- 
diately recognized  and  assented  to  as  moral.  They  insist 
that  these  are  not  determined  by  experience  or  by  reflection, 
since  stealing,  lying,  and  murder  are  known  to  be  wrong  by 
every  one,  though  most  men  could  not  tell  why. 

Intuitionalism  carried  out  to  logical  extremes  is  represented 
by  such  men  as  Tolstoy,  and,  in  general,  those  who  genuinely 
and  persistently  act  according  to  the  dictates  of  their  con- 
science, "who  hold,  and  so  far  as  they  can,  act  upon  the  prin- 
ciple that  we  must  never  resist  force  by  force,  never  arrest  a 
thief,  must  literally  give  to  him  that  asketh,  up  to  one's  last 
penny,  and  so  on." 

Empiricism.  To  explain  the  grounds  of  the  Empirical 
position  is  to  exhibit  the  arguments  in  refutation  of  Intui- 

1  Sidgwick:  Methodt  of  Ethics  (4th  edition),  p.  09. 


450  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

tionalism.  The  most  obvious  and  frequent  line  of  attack 
that  empirical  moralists  make  upon  Intuitionalism  is  to 
examine  and  compare  the  various  "intuitions"  of  right  con- 
duct which  have  been  held  by  men  in  different  ages  and 
places. 

The  traditional  method  of  combating  intuitionalism  from  the  time 
of  John  Locke  to  that  of  Herbert  Spencer  has  been  to  present  the 
reader  with  a  list  of  cruel  and  abominable  savage  customs,  ridiculous 
superstitions,  acts  of  religious  fanaticism  and  intolerance,  which 
have  all  alike  seemed  self-evidently  good  and  right  to  the  peoples  or 
individuals  who  have  practised  them.  There  is  hardly  a  vice  or  a 
crime  (according  to  our  own  moral  standard)  which  has  not  at  some 
time  or  other  in  some  circumstances  been  looked  upon  as  a  moral 
and  religious  duty.  Stealing  was  accounted  virtuous  for  the  young 
Spartan,  and  among  the  Indian  caste  of  Thugs.  In  the  ancient 
world,  piracy,  that  is,  robbery  and  murder,  was  a  respectable  pro- 
fession. To  the  mediaeval  Christian,  religious  persecution  was  the 
highest  of  duties,  and  so  on.1 

The  Empiricist  asks:  If  all  these  intuitions  are  absolute; 
if  men  at  various  times  and  at  various  places,  indeed,  if, 
as  is  the  case,  men  of  different  social  classes  and  situations  at 
the  present  time,  differ  so  profoundly  in  their  "intuitions"  of 
the  just,  the  noble,  and  the  base,  which  of  the  conflicting  intui- 
tions, all  equally  absolute,  is  the  absolute?  The  Intuitionalist 
continually  appeals  to  the  universal  intuition  and  assent  of 
Mankind.  But  there  is  scarcely  a  single  moral  law  for  which 
universal  assent  in  even  a  single  generation  can  be  found. 
One  has  but  to  survey  the  heterogeneous  collection  of  customs 
and  prohibitions  collected  in  such  a  work  as  Frazer's  Golden 
Bough,  to  see  how  little  unanimity  there  is  in  the  moral 
intuitions  of  mankind. 

The  Empiricist  finds  the  origin  of  these  divergent  moral 
convictions  in  the  divergent  environments  to  which  indi- 
viduals in  different  places,  times,  and  social  situations  are  ex- 
posed. The  intensity  and  apparent  irrefutability  of  these 
convictions,  which  the  Intuitionalist  ascribes  to  their  innate- 

»Ea8hdall:  toe.  tit.,  p.  59. 


MORALS  AND  MORAL  VALUATION         451 

ness,  the  Empiricist  ascribes  to  their  early  acquisition,  and 
the  deep  emotional  hold  which  early  acquired  habits  have 
over  the  individual.  Those  moral  beliefs  which  we  hold  with 
the  utmost  conviction  and  intensity  are,  instead  of  being 
thereby  guaranteed  as  most  reasonable  and  genuinely  moral, 
thereby  rendered,  says  the  Empiricist,  the  more  suspect. 
They  are  evidences  of  the  effectiveness  of  our  early  education, 
or  of  our  high  degree  of  sensitiveness  to  our  fellows.  Con- 
science is  thus  reduced  to  habitual  emotional  reactions  pro- 
duced by  the  contact  of  a  given  individual  temperament  with 
a  given  environment. 

Thus  acts  come  by  the  individual  to  be  recognized  as  right 
or  wrong,  according  to  the  tradition  to  which  he  has  been 
educated  and  the  contacts  with  other  people  to  which  he  is 
continually  exposed.  The  Empiricist  does  not  deny  that 
there  are  intuitions,  or  apparent  intuitions.  He  denies  their 
ultimacy,  their  unquestionable  validity. 

When  ...  we  find  ourselves  entertaining  an  opinion  about  the 
basis  of  which  there  is  a  quality  of  feeling  which  tells  us  that  to  in- 
quire into  it  would  be  absurd,  obviously  unnecessary,  unprofitable, 
undesirable,  bad  form,  or  wicked,  we  may  know  that  that  opinion  is 
a  non-rational  one,  and  probably,  therefore,  founded  upon  inade- 
quate evidence.1 

These  so  powerful  convictions  are  the  immediate  promptings 
of  instincts,  or  of  the  habits  into  which  they  have  been  modi- 
fied. The  humane  Christian,  had  he  been  brought  up  in  the 
Eskimo  tradition,  would  with  the  most  tender  solicitude 
slaughter  his  aged  parents,  just  as  the  humane  Christian  in 
the  Middle  Ages  thought  it  his  duty  to  slay  heretics.  There 
is  no  limit  to  the  excesses  to  which  men  have  gone  on  the  dic- 
tates of  conscience.  To  put  actions  on  the  basis  of  conscience 
is  to  put  them  beyond  the  control  of  reflection  or  the  check 
of  inquiry.  It  is  to  reduce  conduct  to  caprice;  to  exalt  im- 
pulse into  a  moral  command.  And  the  results  of  accepting 

1  Trotter:  Instincts  of  the  Herd,  p.  44. 


452  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

blind  intuitions  as  rational  knowledge  have  been  in  many 
cases  catastrophic. 

If  reason  has  slain  its  thousands,  the  acceptance  of  instinct  as 
evidence  has  slain  its  tens  of  thousands.  Day  by  day,  in  the  ordi- 
nary direction  of  their  lives,  men  have  learned  during  hundreds  of 
generations  how  untrustworthy  is  the  interpretation  of  fact  which 
Instinct  offers,  and  how  bitter  is  the  truth  contained  in  such  prov- 
erbs as  "Anger  is  a  bad  counsellor,"  or  "Love  is  blind."  . . .  Wars 
are  often  started  and  maintained,  neither  from  mere  blind  anger, 
nor  because  those  on  either  side  find  that  they  desire  the  results 
which  a  cool  calculation  of  the  conditions  makes  them  regard  as 
probable,  but  largely  because  men  insist  on  treating  their  feelings  as 
evidence  of  fact  and  refuse  to  believe  that  they  can  be  so  angry  with- 
out sufficient  cause.1 

The  Empiricist  insists  that  the  morality  of  an  act  cannot 
be  told  from  the  intensity  of  approval  or  disapproval  which 
it  arouses  in  the  individual.  Actions  are  not  moral  or  im- 
moral in  themselves,  but  in  their  consequences  or  relations, 
which  are  only  discoverable  in  experience.  The  goodness  or 
badness  of  an  act  is  measurable  in  terms  of  its  consequences, 
and  the  consequences  of  action  are  discoverable  only  in  experi- 
ence. This  does  not  imply  that  we  calculate  the  results  of 
every  action  before  performing  it,  or  measure  the  conse- 
quences of  the  acts  of  other  persons  before  judging  them. 
Our  immediate  reactions  are  frequently  not  the  result  of  reflec- 
tion at  all,  but  are  responses  prompted  by  previously  formed 
habits,  or  by  instinctive  caprice.  These  immediate  intuitions 
are  not  to  be  relied  upon  as  moral  standards,  precisely  because 
reflection  frequently  comes  to  an  estimate  of  an  act,  directly 
at  variance  with  our  instinctive  reaction  to  it.  We  come, 
upon  reflection,  to  approve  acts  that  we  are,  by  instinct, 
moved  to  condemn.  And  the  reverse  holds  true. 

When  we  see  that  a  child's  clothes  have  caught  fire,  we  do  not 
need  to  reflect  on  any  consequences  for  universal  well-being  before 
we  make  up  our  minds  that  it  is  a  duty  to  extinguish  the  flames,  even 
at  the  cost  of  some  risk  to  ourselves.  It  is  clear  that  the  act  will 

>  Graham  Wallas:  The  Great  Society,  pp.  224-25. 


MORALS  AND  MORAL  VALUATION         453 

conduce  to  pleasure  and  to  the  avoidance  of  pain.  We  should  feel 
an  equally  instinctive  desire  to  kick  out  of  the  room  a  man  whom  we 
saw  making  incisions  in  the  flesh  of  a  human  being  if  we  did  not  know 
that  he  was  a  surgeon,  and  that  the  making  of  incisions  will  tend  to 
gave  the  man's  life.  Were  a  competent  physician  to  suggest  that 
the  burning  of  the  child's  clothes  upon  its  back  would  cure  it  of  a 
fever,  every  reasonable  person  would  consider  it  his  duty  to  recon- 
sider his  prima-facie  view  of  the  situation.1 

The  Empiricist  insists  that  moral  standards  are  matters  of 
discovery;  that  the  laws  of  conduct  must  be  derived  from 
experience,  just  as  must  the  laws  of  the  physical  sciences. 
To  condemn  an  act  as  evil  means  that  the  performance  of  that 
act  has  in  experience  been  found  to  produce  harmful  results. 
Those  moral  laws  which  at  the  present  stage  of  civilized  soci- 
ety seem  to  have  attained  universal  assent,  have  attained  it 
because  they  are  rules  whose  practice  has,  in  the  history  of 
the  race,  repeatedly  been  found  to  produce  desirable  results. 
Even  the  conception  of  justice,  which  has  by  so  many  think- 
ers been  held  to  be  absolute,  to  inhere  somehow  in  the  nature 
of  things,  is  by  Mill  demonstrated  at  length  to  be  merely  a 
particularly  highly  regarded  utility: 

It  appears  .  .  .  that  justice  is  a  name  for  certain  moral  require- 
ments, which,  regarded  collectively,  stand  higher  in  the  scale  of 
social  utility,  and  are  therefore  of  more  paramount  obligation  than 
any  others;  though  particular  cases  may  occur  where  some  other 
social  duty  is  so  important  as  to  overrule  any  one  of  the  general 
maxims  of  justice.  Thus,  to  save  a  life,  it  may  not  only  be  allowable, 
but  a  duty,  to  steal,  or  take  by  force,  the  necessary  food  or  medicine, 
or  to  kidnap,  and  compel  to  officiate,  the  only  qualified  medical 
practitioner.1 

Indeed  it  is  clear,  that  in  the  processes  of  natural  selection 
those  tribes  would  survive  whose  rules  of  morality  did  in 
general  promote  welfare.  And  it  is  the  business  of  reflection, 
says  the  Empiricist,  not  to  accept  either  his  own  conviction 
or  those  of  others  on  ethical  questions,  but  in  cases  of  ambi- 

1  Rashdall:  Ethics,  pp.  51-52. 

•  Mill:  Utilitarianism  (London,  1907),  p.  95. 


454  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

guity  to  establish,  after  inquiry,  a  standard  the  practice  of 
which  promises  the  widest  benefits  in  human  happiness. 

Ethics  and  life.  All  ethical  theories  are  more  or  less  de- 
liberately intended  as  definitions  of  the  good,  and  as  instru- 
ments for  its  attainment.  They  must,  therefore,  be  im- 
mediately tested  by  their  fruits  in  life.  An  ethical  theory 
that  is  only  verbally  concerned  with  the  good,  but  does  not 
in  practice  promote  human  welfare,  is  futile  pedantry  or  worse. 
Reflection  upon  conduct  arises  in  man's  attempt  to  control 
the  nature  which  is  his  inheritance  in  the  interests  of  his 
happiness.  Men  have  learned  through  experience  that  to 
follow  each  impulse  without  forethought  brings  them  pain, 
misery,  and  sometimes  destruction.  They  have  found  that 
to  achieve  happiness  some  harmony  must  be  established 
between  competing  desires,  and  that  only  by  balances,  ad- 
justment, and  control,  can  they  make  the  most  of  the  nature 
which  is  theirs  inescapably.  This  nature  consists,  as  we  have 
seen,  in  certain  specific  tendencies  to  action.  Men  are  na- 
tively endowed  with  instincts  to  love,  to  fight,  to  be  curious, 
to  long  for  and  enjoy  the  companionship  of  their  fellows,  to 
wish  privacy  and  solitude,  to  follow  a  lead  and  to  take  it, 
to  fear  and  hate,  and  sympathize  with  others.  The  satis- 
faction of  any  one  of  these  impulses  gives  pleasure.  Any  one 
of  these  may  become  a  dominant  passion.  But  it  is  not 
through  yielding  to  a  single  imperious  impulse  that  men  attain 
genuine  happiness.  To  be  excessively  pugnacious  or  amor- 
ous or  fearful  is  to  court  unhappiness,  both  for  the  individual 
and  his  fellows.  It  is  only  by  giving  each  instinct  its  propor- 
tionate chance  in  the  total  context  of  all  the  instincts,  that 
happiness  is  to  be  found. 

It  is  for  this  reason  that,  as  Aristotle  first  pointed  out,  a 
study  of  what  is  good  for  man  must  start  with  a  study  of 
what  man  himself  is.  The  study  of  ethics  must  consequently 
fall  back  for  its  data  upon  psychology.  It  must  note  with  pre- 
cision the  things  that  men  can  do,  before  it  tells  them  what 
they  ought  to  do.  For  the  things  they  ought  to  do,  are 


MORALS  AND  MORAL  VALUATION         455 

dependent  on  the  conditions  which  limit  and  determine  their 
ideals.  Any  ethical  system  that  deliberately  excludes  from 
its  formulation  natural  human  desires  and  capacities,  is 
denying  the  very  sources  of  all  morality.  For  every  ideal 
has  its  root  back  in  some  unlearned  human  impulse,  and  an 
ideal  that  has  no  basis  in  the  nature  of  man,  is  not  an  ideal, 
but  a  negation.  The  ideal  "way  of  life"  is  one  that  provides 
for  the  harmonious  utilization  of  all  those  possibilities  which 
lie  in  man's  original  nature.  To  deny  a  place  to  the  sex  im- 
pulse is  to  deny  a  place  to  ideal  love.  To  deny  the  moral 
legitimacy  of  the  fighting  instinct  is  to  take  away  the  basis 
of  that  immense  energy  which  goes  to  sustain  great  moral 
reformers.  The  place  of  ethical  theory  is  not  to  deny  human 
impulses,  but  to  turn  them  to  uses  in  which  they  will  not 
hinder  other  impulses  either  of  the  individual  or  of  others. 
Through  physical  science,  men  have  sought  to  make  the  most 
of  then-  physical  environment;  through  moral  science,  they 
can  try  to  make  the  most  of  the  human  equipment  which  is 
theirs  for  better  or  for  worse.  This  human  equipment  is  an 
opportunity;  and  the  utilization  of  this  opportunity  consti- 
tutes happiness.  It  is  in  the  realization  of  the  possibilities 
offered  by  our  original  human  nature  that  reflection  upon 
morals  is  justified.  It  is  in  the  effective  fulfillment  of  this 
opportunity  that  its  success  must  be  measured. 

Morality  and  human  nature.  A  moral  theory  that  is 
merely  coercive  and  arbitrary,  therefore,  is  not  in  a  genuine 
sense  moral.  A  morality,  to  justify  itself,  must  appeal  to 
the  heart  of  man.  The  good  which  it  recommends  must  be 
a  good  which  man  can  without  sophistry  approve.  And  the 
good  for  which  man  can  whole-heartedly  strive  is  not  deter- 
mined by  logic,  but,  in  the  last  analysis,  by  biology.  Human 
beings  cannot  freely  call  good  that  to  which  they  have  no 
spontaneous  prompting.  Those  ascetics  who  have  denied 
the  flesh  may  have  displayed  a  certain  degree  of  heroism,  but 
they  displayed  an  equal  lack  of  insight.  For  it  is  out  of 
physical  impulses  alone  that  any  ideal  values  can  arise. 


456  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

It  is  only  when  one  instinct  interferes  with  its  neighbors, 
or  one  individual  with  his  fellows,  that  instincts  or  activi- 
ties can  be  called  evil.  They  are  called  evil  in  relation,  in 
context,  with  reference  to  their  consequences.  In  itself  no 
natural  impulse  is  subject  to  condemnation.  It  is  just  as 
natural  as  thunder  or  sunshine,  and  is  to  be  taken  as  a  point 
of  departure,  as  a  basis  for  action,  rather  than  as  a  chance 
for  censure.  Impulses  demand  control  simply  because,  left 
to  themselves,  they  collide  with  each  other,  just  as  indi- 
viduals uncontrolled  by  custom,  law,  and  education,  collide 
with  each  other  in  the  pursuit  of  satisfaction.  The  ideal  is 
&  way  of  life,  which  will  allow  as  much  spontaneity  as  the 
conditions  of  nature  and  life  allow,  and  provide  as  much  con- 
trol as  they  make  necessary.  To  be  thus  in  control  of  one's 
desires  is  to  be  free.  It  is  to  utilize  one's  interests  and  capac- 
ities in  the  light  of  a  harmony  both  of  one's  own  desires,  and 
in  so  far  as  this  harmony  is  universal,  of  the  desires  of  all  men. 
It  is  to  lead  the  Life  of  Reason: 

Every  one  leads  the  Life  of  Reason  in  so  far  as  he  finds  a  steady 
light  behind  the  world's  glitter,  and  a  clear  residuum  of  joy  beneath 
pleasure  and  success.  No  experience  not  to  be  repented  of  falls 
without  its  sphere.  Every  solution  to  a  doubt,  in  so  far  as  it  is  not 
a  new  error,  every  practical  achievement  not  neutralized  by  a  second 
maladjustment  consequent  upon  it,  every  consolation  not  the  seed 
of  another,  greater  sorrow,  may  be  gathered  together  and  built  into 
this  edifice.  The  Life  of  Reason  is  the  happy  marriage  of  two  ele- 
ments—  impulse  and  ideation  —  which  if  wholly  divorced  would 
reduce  man  to  a  brute  or  to  a  maniac.  The  rational  animal  is  gen- 
erated by  the  union  of  these  two  monsters.  He  is  constituted  by 
ideas  which  have  ceased  to  be  visionary  and  actions  which  have 
ceased  to  be  vain.1 

Nor  does  the  leading  of  a  moral  life,  as  Kant  and  other 
moralists  said  or  implied,  demand  a  stern  and  lugubrious 
countenance  and  a  sad,  resigned  determination  to  be  good. 
A  moral  system  should  promote  rather  a  hallelujah  than  a 
halo.  One  may  suspect  the  adequacy  to  human  happiness  of 

1  Santayana;  Reason  in  Common  Sense,  p.  6. 


MORALS  AND  MORAL  VALUATION         457 

those  moral  systems  which  promote  in  their  holders  or  practi- 
tioners a  virtuous  somberness  and  a  moral  melancholy.  A 
morality  that  demands  such  unwholesome  outward  evidences 
is  inwardly  not  beautiful.  As  art  is  an  attempt  to  give  per- 
fection and  fulfillment  to  matter,  so  is  morals  an  attempt  to 
give  perfect  and  complete  fulfillment  to  human  possibility. 
A  genuine  morality  will,  in  consequence,  be  spontaneous  and 
free.  In  Matthew  Arnold's  well-known  lines: 

"Then,  when  the  clouds  are  off  the  soul, 
When  thou  dost  bask  in  Nature's  eye, 
Ask,  how  she  view'd  thy  self-control, 
Thy  struggling  task'd  morality. 
Nature,  whose  free,  light,  cheerful  air 
Oft  made  thee,  in  thy  gloom,  despair. 


"There  is  no  effort  on  my  brow  — 
I  do  not  strive,  I  do  not  weep. 
I  rush  with  the  swift  spheres,  and  glow 
In  joy,  and  when  I  will,  I  sleep."  l 

Morals,  law,  and  education.  No  moral  code,  however 
adequate  in  its  theoretical  formulation  or  the  means  of  its 
attainment,  is  socially  effective  merely  as  theory.  No  matter 
how  completely  it  takes  into  account  all  the  natural  desires 
and  possibilities  which  demand  fulfillment,  it  remains  merely 
an  academic  yearning.  It  becomes  an  instrument  of  happi- 
ness only  when  it  has  been  made  the  habitual  mode  of  life  of 
the  individual  and  the  group,  through  the  long  continuous 
processes  of  education  and  law.  There  is  a  familiar  discrep- 
ancy between  theory  and  practice,  even  when  the  discrepancy 
is  not  due  to  insincerity.  Philosophy  cannot  make  a  man 
virtuous,  however  much  it  may  convince  him  of  the  path  to 
virtue.  Socrates  thought  that  if  men  only  knew  the  good 
they  would  follow  it.  But  modern  psychologists  and  ordinary 
laymen  know  better.  The  good  must  become  a  habitual 
practice  if  men  are  to  follow  it,  and  it  can  only  become  a 
habitual  practice  if  education  and  social  conditions  in  general 

1  From  Morality. 


458  THE  CAREER  OF  REASON 

provide  for  the  early  habituation  of  the  individual  to  con- 
duct that  is  socially  useful.  Aristotle,  who  himself  framed  a 
theory  of  morals  that  was  built  on  the  firm  foundation  of 
human  possibility,  was  aware  of  the  inadequacy  of  theory 
by  itself  to  make  men  good: 

Some  people  think  that  men  are  made  good  by  nature,  others  by 
habit,  others  again  by  teaching. 

Now  it  is  clear  that  the  gift  of  Nature  is  not  in  our  own  power, 
but  is  bestowed  through  some  divine  power  upon  those  who  are 
truly  fortunate.  It  is  probably  true  also  that  reason  and  teaching 
are  not  universally  efficacious;  the  soul  of  the  pupil  must  first  have 
been  cultivated  by  habit  to  a  right  spirit  of  pleasure  and  aversion, 
like  the  earth  that  is  to  nourish  the  seed.1 

It  is  only  when  people  find  pleasure  in  the  right  actions, 
that  they  can  be  depended  upon  to  perform  them.  And  it 
is  by  then*  early  and  habitual  performance  that  they  will 
become  pleasant.  In  the  formation  of  such  socially  and 
individually  useful  habits,  education  is  the  incomparable 
instrument.  The  conduct  of  individuals  is,  as  we  have  re- 
peatedly seen,  largely  fixed  by  the  customary  recognition  of 
certain  acts  as  approved,  and  others  as  disapproved.  These 
approvals  and  disapprovals  are  transmitted  through  educa- 
tion. Education  is  used  here  to  refer  not  simply  to  the  formal 
institutions  of  teaching,  but  to  the  complete  social  environ- 
ment, the  approvals  and  disapprovals  with  which  an  indi- 
vidual comes  in  contact.  Formal  education  is,  however,  the 
chief  means  by  which  society  inculcates  into  younger  members 
those  values,  traditions,  and  customs  which  its  controlling 
elements  regard  as  of  the  most  pivotal  importance. 

Social  customs  which  are  transmitted  in  education,  become 
fixed  in  law.  So  that,  as  Aristotle  points  out  in  this  same 
connection,  laws  are  symptomatic  of  the  moral  values  which 
the  group  regards  as  of  the  highest  importance.  Laws  are 
customs  given  all  the  sanction,  support,  and  significance  that 
the  group  can  put  into  them.  Education  transmits  the  val- 

1  Aristotle:  Ethics,  book  x,  chap,  x,  p.  844  (Weldon  translation). 


MORALS  AND  MORAL  VALUATION       .  459 

ues,  ideals,  and  traditions  cherished  by  the  group,  but  the 
laws  and  customs  already  current  largely  control  the  scope 
and  methods  of  education.  "  Education  proceeds  ultimately 
from  the  patterns  furnished  by  institutions,  customs,  and 
laws.  Only  in  a  just  state  will  these  be  such  as  to  give  the 
right  education."  l 

The  state  of  law  and  education  which  is  exhibited  by  a 
society,  thus  accurately  mirrors  the  degree  of  moral  progress 
of  the  group.  And  what  is,  perhaps,  more  significant,  the 
kind  of  law  and  education  current  determines  the  moral 
ideals  and  conditions  the  moral  achievements  of  the  maturing 
generation.  Education,  more  especially,  is  the  instrument 
through  which  the  young  can  be  educated  not  only  to  ideals 
and  customs  already  current,  but  to  their  reflective  modifica- 
tion in  the  light  of  our  ever-growing  knowledge  of  the  condi- 
tions of  human  welfare. 

1  Dewey:  Democracy  and  Education,  p.  103. 


INDEX 


Ability,  education  and  native,  210. 

Absolutism  in  morality,  441-43. 

Acquisitive  instinct,  140-42. 

Activity,  creative  (see  Creative  ac- 
tivity); mental,  72-76;  physical, 
69-72;  social,  108-09. 

./Esthetic  experience,  341-42;  and 
form,  346-51,  368;  in  industry, 
342;  in  science,  63;  sense  satisfac- 
tion basis  of,  345-46;  standards, 
effect  of  custom  on,  105,  361 ;  value 
of  science,  63,  375;  values,  351-56; 
TS.  moral  values,  353;  vs.  practical 
values,  342-45.  See  also  Art. 

Affection.     See  Love. 

Age,  influence  of  on  learning,  12,  32. 

Altruism,  158-59. 

Ambition,  156. 

Animal,  instincts  compared  with  hu- 
man, 5;  man  as  an,  1 ;  man  a  social, 
81. 

Appreciation.     See  ^Esthetic, 

Aristocracy,  184. 

Aristotle,  45,  95,  176.  308,  436,  437, 
438,  439,  444,  447,  458. 

Arnold,  Matthew,  154,  166,  457. 

Art,  and  emotion,  94-95,  350,  357- 
68,  362;  and  morals,  363,  362-67; 
and  nature,  331-33;  appreciation 
of,  342-46;  as  an  industry,  360-61; 
as  propaganda,  357-68, 362, 364;  as 
realization  of  ideals,  331,  337-41; 
as  recreation,  72,  336;  as  vicarious 
experience,  94-95,  356-58;  expres- 
sion of  ideas  by,  351-57;  fine,  334, 
336-67,  344;  for  art's  sake,  365- 
66;  imagination  in,  73,  338;  indus- 
trial, 64,  335;  origin  of,  65,  333-35; 
standards  in,  105,  349,  361.  See 
also  /Esthetic. 

Attention  in  habit  formation,  31. 

Awe,  300-02. 

Bacon,  Francis,  xi,  68,  64,  240,  264, 

373,  378. 

Bagehot,  114,  423. 
Bain,  111. 


Beauty.     See  Art,  and  ^Esthetic. 

Behavior,  habitual,  26-40;  instinc- 
tive, 18-26;  types  of  human,  1-46. 

Behaviorism,  447. 

Belief,  gregariousness  in,  88-90;  in- 
dividuality in,  142—47. 

Bentham,  111,  159,251,439,445,446. 

Bergson,  3,  16,  319. 

Bible,  115,  135,  286,  287,  290,  303, 
304,  306,  310,  329,  423. 

Blame.   See  Praise. 

Bloomfield,  Leonard,  214,  222. 

Boas,  198,  199,  200,  201. 

Bryce,  324. 

Burke,  Edmund,  260. 

Burns,  C.  Delisle,  264. 

Bury,  143,  327,  328. 

Butler,  10. 

Cannon,  42. 

Career  of  reason,  276-78. 

Carlyle,  121-22. 

Carnegie,  162,  207. 

Cattell,  195. 

Change,  in  customs,  60,  252,  256-57, 
261-63;  in  habits,  53-55;  in  lan- 
guage, 222-35;  opposition  to,  127, 
143-47,  252-57,  261-63,  326,  327- 
28,  417-18. 

Character.  See  Personality,  and  Self, 
development  of. 

Christ,  103,  132,  136,  151,  438. 

Christianity,  100,  298,  304.  310,  313, 
315,  316,  317,  327,  328,  329,  330. 

Church,  the,  as  a  social  institution, 
322-28;  educational  functions  of, 
324-25;  political  functions  of,  324. 

Civilization,  and  acquisitive  instinct, 
141 ;  control  of  instincts  in,  20-23, 
413-14;  factors  in  development  of, 
xii,  16-17,  217,  379.  See  also  So- 
ciety. 

Classification  in  science,  242,  397-98. 

Coefficient  of  correlation,  202,  406. 

Common  sense  and  science,  381-87. 

Communication.     See  Language. 

Companionship.  See  Gregariousness. 


462 


INDEX 


Comte,  Augusts,  85. 

Conduct,  cultivation  of  socially  de- 
sirable, 105-09;  social  standards  of, 
103-05. 

Confession,  304-05. 

Conscience,  449. 

Conservatism,  place  of  fear  in,  127; 
of  habit,  37,  47-48,  55. 

Continuity,  cultural,  12,  107,  246- 
50,  263-70. 

Cooley,  96. 

Courage,  180. 

Creative  activity,  and  eccentricity, 
175;  as  sublimation  of  sex  instinct, 
69;  in  art,  64-66,  336;  in  industry, 
72,  339;  in  society,  336,  358-60. 
Sec  also  Imagination. 

Culture,  continuity  of,  12,  107,  246- 
50,  272-74,  418;  dependent  on  en- 
vironment, 199. 

Curiosity,  instinct  of,  22,  74-75;  and 
scientific  inquiry,  62,  369,  387- 
89. 

Custom,  attitudes  toward,  249-72; 
and  art,  105,  349-50;  and  morals, 
414-24;  changes  in,  60,  252,  256- 
67,  261-63;  effects  of  on  progress, 
420-24;  preservation  of,  90,  127, 
252-61;  social  value  of,  419-20, 
429. 

Dante,  133,  356,  364,  431. 

Darwin,  12,  74,  317,  376. 

Deduction,  62,  391. 

Democracy,  184,  213. 

Dewey,  11,  13,  67,  69,  73,  75,  107, 
380,  389,  390,  398,  407,  408,  417, 
420,  433,  447,  459. 

Dickens,  172,  178. 

Dickinson,  G.  Lowes,  271. 

Differences,  individual,  and  educa- 
tion, 186-87,  209-13;  causes  of, 
190-209;  in  industry,  211-12;  in 
leadership,  119;  in  reflection,  67, 
394-95;  influence  of  environment 
on,  193,  199,  206-09;  of  heredity, 
202-O6;  of  race,  195-202;  of  sex, 
190-95. 

Discontent,  due  to  repression  of  in- 
stincts, 23-26. 

Dislike.     See  Hate. 

Divine,  as  the  human  ideal,  310-11; 
description  of,  308-10. 

Dogmatism,  167-69. 


Dow,  346. 

Dowson,  Ernest,  294. 

Eccentrics,  173-76. 

Education,  and  individual  differ- 
ences, 186-87,  209-13;  and  mor- 
als, 457-59;  as  transmitter  of  the 
past,  12,  107,  272-74,  418;  by  the 
church,  324-25;  instrument  for 
social  betterment  and  control,  xii, 
xiii,  12,  22,  35,  46,  107-08,  158-59; 
made  possible  by  prolonged  period 
of  infancy,  11-12;  and  by  lan- 
guage, 15.  See  also  Learning. 

Egoism,  158-59. 

Emerson,  281,  291. 

Emotion,  accompanies  satisfaction  or 
frustration  of  instincts  or  habits, 
37,  43,  45-46;  and  art,  94-95,  350, 
357-58,  362;  and  language,  235- 
39;  aroused  in  maintenance  of  self, 
178-81;  as  driving  power,  44-45; 
difficulty  of  classifying,  42-43;  in 
morals,  45-46,  436-38;  impedes 
reflection,  43-44;  James-Lange 
theory  of,  41;  of  dislike  or  hate, 
128-29,  134-37;  179-80;  of  fear, 
125-28;  of  pity,  123-25;  of  love, 
128-33;  physical  indications  of,  40- 
42. 

Empirical  morality,  449-54. 

Enthusiasm,  169-71;  religious,  305- 
08. 

Environment,  control  of  by  science, 
64;  influence  of  on  aesthetic  appre- 
ciation, 105,  361;  on  individual 
differences,  193,  206-09;  on  racial 
differences,  199;  on  instincts,  20- 
26;  maladjustment  between  indi- 
vidual and,  25;  possibility  of  choice 
of,  207-09. 

Ethics,  and  life,  454-55;  contrast  be- 
tween professed  and  practiced, 
100-01.  See  also  Morality. 

Euripedes,  123,  180,  306,  356. 

Evolution,  317-20. 

Experience,  art  as  vicarious,  94-95; 
356-58;  modifies  man's  instincts, 
27. 

Experiment,  to  determine  learning 
process  in  animals,  8;  number  of  in- 
stincts in  animals,  4;  in  children,  5. 

Experimental  moral  standards,  447- 
48,  453. 


INDEX 


463 


Experimentation    in    science,    399- 

401. 
Expression,  art  as  means  of,  351-56 

See  alto  ^Esthetic,  and  Religion. 

Fatigue,  influence  of  on  learning,  30- 
32;  in  relation  to  industry,  76-77; 
mental,  77-80;  nervous,  77;  physi- 
cal, 76-77,  192. 

Fear,  and  religious  experience,  300- 
02;  instinct  of,  125-28;  of  the  new, 
127,  143,  253. 

Field,  Eugene,  352. 

Fighting  instinct.    See  Pugnacity. 

Fiske,  10. 

Folkways,  104. 

Food,  instinct  of,  67. 

Form,  and  aesthetic  experience,  346- 
51. 

Freedom  of  speech,  142-47. 

Freudian  psychology,  111,  164,  202. 

Friendship.     See  Love. 

Frost,  Robert,  84. 

Gal  ton,  Francis,  83,  201. 

Garibaldi,  118,  120. 

Generalization  in  reflection,  400-02. 

Genius,  175. 

God,  281,  282,  283, 290, 292,  293,  294, 
303,  305,  308,  309,  310,  312,  315, 
316,  319,  320. 

Goethe,  161,  363. 

Goff,  132. 

Goldmark,  76,  77,  192. 

Gregariousness,  effect  of  on  innova- 
tion, 90;  importance  of  for  social 
solidarity,  86-87,  181;  in  action, 
89-90;  in  belief,  88-89;  instinct  of, 
83-90,  138. 

Group-feeling,  181-85;  influence  of 
on  language,  233.  See  also  Soci- 
ety. 

Habit,  as  time-saver,  33-36;  impor- 
tance of  in  morals,  436-37;  lan- 
guage as  a,  217-18,  222;  of  reflec- 
tion, importance  of,  37,  53,  59-60, 
430;  strength  of  in  individual,  47- 
48,  55;  in  society,  37. 

Habits,  and  emotion,  37,  43,  45-46; 
and  instincts,  7,  27;  disserviceable, 
36-37;  education  a  deliberate 
acquisition  of,  12,  35,  46;  forma- 
tion of,  7,  26-33,  38,  52-53,  influ- 


ence of  on  thinking,  55-58;  modifi- 
cation of  by  reflection,  53-55;  of 
mind,  12,  37,  53,  59-60,  430;  spe- 
cific not  general,  38-40;  transfer- 
ence of,  38,  40. 

Hard,  William,  117. 

Harrison,  Jane,  297,  301,  334,  343. 

Hart,  25,  386. 

Hate,  128-29,  134-37,  179-80. 

Health,  influence  of  on  learning,  32. 

Hegel,  258. 

Henley,  180,  236. 

Heraclitus,  374. 

Herd  instinct.    See  Gregariousness. 

Heredity,  202-06. 

Hinks,  388. 

History,  and  religion,  314-15. 

Hobhouse,  69. 

Housman,  129. 

Hunger,  instinct  of,  4,  67. 

Huxley,  382,  398. 

Ideals,  created  by  reflection,  431, 
433-34;  devotion  to,  169,  170,  173; 
foundation  of,  276;  realization  of 
in  art,  331,  337;  in  morals,  437;  in 
religion,  292-93. 

Ideas,  expressed  in  art,  351-57;  fear 
of  the  novel  in,  127,  143,  145;  man 
alone  reacts  to,  13. 

Imagination,  as  form  of  mental  ac- 
tivity, 72-77;  in  art,  73,  338;  in 
science,  73-75,  339-41,  375.  See 
also  Creative  activity. 

Impotence.     See  Need. 

Impulses.     See  Instincts. 

Individual,  and  education,  186-87; 
209-13 ;  differences  (see  Differences, 
individual) ;  maladjustment  be- 
tween environment  and,  25. 

Individualism,  183-84,  427. 

Individuality,  and  progress,  141-47. 
190;  consciousness  of  unique  in 
man,  13;  in  opinion  and  belief,  142- 
44. 

Induction,  62. 

Industry,  art  as  an,  360-61 ;  individ- 
ual differences  in,  211-12;  need  of 
creative  activity  in,  72,  339. 

Infancy,  prolonged  period  of  in  man, 
10-12. 

Inquisition,  327-28. 

Instinct,  and  habit,  7,  27;  acquisi- 
tive, 140-42;  definition  of,  2,  IS.  of 


464 


INDEX 


curiosity,  22,  62,  74-75,  369,  387- 
89;  fear,  125-28,  143,  253,  300-02; 
gregariousness,  83-90,  138,  181; 
hunger,  4,  67-68;  leadership,  22, 
119-23;  mental  activity,  72-76; 
parental,  4,  124,  245;  physical  ac- 
tivity, 69-72;  pity,  123-25;  play, 
22,  70-71;  pugnacity,  111-115; 
self-preservation,  4;  sex,  67-69, 
190-95,  243;  shelter,  67-68;  sub- 
mission, 116-19,  123;  sympathy, 
22,  90-96,  158-59. 

Instincts,  and  education,  xii,  xiii, 
458-59;  and  emotion,  43,  45;  basis 
of  morals,  411-14,  440,  454-56; 
conflict  of,  413-14;  control  of,  19- 
26,  59,  413-14;  happiness  comes 
from  satisfaction  of,  25-26;  inter- 
penetration  of,  6,  110-11,  411; 
modification  of,  5-7,  11,  18-19,  22, 
52-53;  number  and  variety  of,  3-6; 
repression  of,  20-26;  specific  not 
general,  3;  unchanged  since  pre- 
historic times,  xi-xii,  21. 

Intelligence,  a  conscious  adjustment 
of  habits,  40;  influence  of  heredity 
on,  202-06,  of  race,  196-202,  of 
sex,  191,  195;  makes  possible  con- 
trol of  nature,  16;  measurement  of, 
188,  191,  197,  209;  types  of,  187- 
88. 

Interests,  conflict  of  in  society,  413- 
14. 

Intolerance,  327-28. 

Intuition,  194,  451. 

Intuitionalism,  418  49. 

Invention  of  tools,  16,  17. 

James,  William,  2,  3,  30,  33,  34,  35, 
36,  41,  42,  43,  101,  114,  126,  128, 
137,  148,  155,  156,  158,  160,  161, 
165,  280,  281,  289,  292,  293,  302, 
321,  329,  351,  371,  392,  393. 

Jennings,  4. 

Jevons,  295,  398,  402,  403,  404. 

Job,  290,  301. 

Jones,  A.  L.,  405,  407. 

Joy,  religious  expression  of,  305-07. 

Kant,  413,  442,  443,  456. 
Kelvin,  375,  387. 
Kerr-Lawson,  132. 
Keyser,  321. 
Kropotkin,  245. 


Ladd,  30. 

Lang,  114. 

Lange,  41. 

Language,  and  emotion,  235-39;  and 
logic,  235,  239-42;  and  thought, 
218-21;  as  a  social  habit,  217-18, 
222;  changes  in,  222-35;  impor- 
tance of  for  civilization,  15,  217; 
man  alone  possesses,  14,  214-15; 
origin  of,  216-17;  primitive,  220- 
21,  230;  uniformities  in,  227-28, 
231-33. 

Law,  and  morals,  457-59;  and  soci- 
ety, 22,  106;  scientific,  61,  371. 

Leadership,  instinct  of,  22,  118,  123; 
submission  to,  116-19,  123. 

Learning,  affected  by  age,  fatigue, 
and  health,  12,  32;  capacity  for  in 
men  and  animals,  11;  drill  and  at- 
tention in,  31 ;  importance  of  habit 
of,  37,  53,  59-60,  430;  process  of, 
6-10,  31  (see  also  Education,  and 
Reflection) ;  trial-and-error,  7. 

Le  Bon,  91. 

Lee,  Frederick  8.,  77. 

Lincoln,  118,  132,  146,  163. 

Logic,  and  language,  235,  239-42. 

Love,  128-33. 

Lowell,  282. 

Loyalty,  116-17. 

Lucretius,  177, 301, 308, 363, 374, 376. 

McDougall,  3,  19,  28,  42,  43,  69,  83, 
86,  90,  91,  94,  111,  114,  115,  120, 
124,  126,  142,  149,  171,  440. 

Malthus,  245. 

Man,  as  social  being,  81-83;  primi- 
tive, 16-17;  study  of,  basis  of  eth- 
ics, 454-57;  unique  characteristics 
of,  10-17. 

Marett,  220-221. 

Markham,  Edwin,  357. 

Marot,  Helen,  72,  111,  359. 

Marx,  Karl,  263. 

Masefield,  356. 

Mayo-Smith,  263. 

Mendelian  laws  of  heredity,  205,  379, 

Mental  activity,  72-76. 

Meyer,  Eduard,  183. 

Mill,  John  Stuart,  92,  125,  144,  146, 
163,  175,  184,  311,  316,  319,  320, 
332,  342,  399,  402,  445. 

Mills,  15. 

Milton,  145,  363. 


INDEX 


465 


Moral  action,  431-33;  knowledge, 
448;  standards.  410-20,  424,  443, 
447-48,  450,  452;  theory,  types  of, 
441-54;  values,  353,  419,  425,  432, 
442. 

Morality,  ahsolutistic,  441-43;  and 
art,  362-67;  and  education,  457- 
59;  and  emotion,  45-46,  436-37; 
and  habit,  45-46,  436;  and  human 
nature,  455-57;  and  intellectual- 
ism,  438-39;  and  law,  457-59; 
based  on  instincts,  411-13,  440, 
454-56;  customary ,  414-24;  em- 
pirical, 449-54 ;  inadequacy  of  the- 
ory in,  434-38;  intuitional,  448-49; 
reflective,  424-34,  relati viatic  and 
toleological,  443-45;  spontaneous, 
456-57. 

Morley,  John,  167. 

Mysticism,  288-89. 

Napoleon,  118,  121. 

Nature,  and  art,  331,  333;  man's  con- 
trol of,  xi-xii,  16,  17;  science  as  ex- 
planation of,  369-75;  unchange- 
ability  of,  xi. 

Need,  and  religious  experience,  294- 
300. 

New,  progress  and  the,  144-47;  dis- 
trust of,  127,  143-47,  253-61; 
idealization  of,  261-63.  See  also 
Originality. 

Newton,  xi,  12,  56,  74,  177,  321,  376. 

Nietssche,  122,  139,  168,  427. 

Northcliffe,  Lord,  106. 

Noyea,  Alfred,  351. 

Observation  in  science,  395-97,  402- 

05. 
Opinion,    individuality   in,    142—47; 

suppression  of,  163. 
Originality  in  thinking,  causes  of,  66- 

57;   encouragement   of,    90,    105; 

fear   of,    in   society,    90,    143-47. 

See  also  New. 
Orosius,  314-15. 
O'Shaughnessy,  363. 
Other-worldliness,  328. 

Parental  instinct,  4,  124-25,  245. 

Pascal.  172. 

Past,  critical  examination  of,  263-70; 

disparagement    of,    251,    261-63; 

education   as   transmitter  of,    12, 


107,  272-74,  418;  idealization  of, 
254-57;  limitations  of.  270-72;  our 
heritage  from,  246-50,  263-70; 
veneration  of,  252-54. 

Pasteur,  321,  380. 

Pater,  Walter,  249-50. 

Pearson,  Karl,  63,  190,  202,  378. 

Penance,  304. 

Personality,  149,  151,  162-64,  432. 
See  also  Self. 

Physical  activity,  instinct  of,  69-72; 
fatigue,  76-77. 

Pity,  instinct  of,  123-125. 

Plato,  65,  98,  108,  127,  131,  176,  178, 
296,  308,  362,  426,  435. 

Play.  See  Physical  activity,  and 
Recreation. 

Pleasure,  446-47. 

Poe,  95. 

Poincare,  63,  372,  397. 

Pope.  258. 

Population,  243-45;  restriction  of, 
245-46. 

Possession.     See  Acquisitive. 

Praise  and  blame,  as  instruments  of 
social  control,  97,  101-07,  416;  de- 
termine professed  standards,  100- 
01,  424;  in  development  of  self, 
149-51;  indifference  to,  103;  man 
responsive  to,  96-107,  414,  415. 

Prayer,  297-300;  302. 

Prejudice,  influences  thinking,  57-58, 
395. 

Primitive  and  civilized  races,  196- 
202;  language,  220-21,  230;  man's 
manufacture  of  tools,  16-17;  mo- 
rality, 417;  religion,  295-98, 300-01, 
305,  307;  science,  61-62. 

Principles,  431. 

Privacy,  instinctive  demand  for,  138. 

Probability,  405-07. 

Progress,  and  custom,  420-24;  and 
pugnacity,  114-15;  and  reflection, 
434;  and  variation  from  normal, 
144—47,  190;  science  as  an  instru- 
ment of,  379.  407-10. 

Propaganda, art  as,  357-58,  362,  364: 
emotional  value  of  words  in,  239. 

Psychological  tests.  See  Intelligence, 
measurement  of. 

Psychology,  and  ethics,  454;  behav- 
ioristic,  447;  "faculty,"  39;  Freud- 
ian, 111,  164,  202;  of  Utilitarian- 
ism, 446-47. 


466 


INDEX 


Public  opinion,  22,  101,  106-07;  op- 
position to,  103. 
Pugnacity,  instinct  of,  111-115. 

Quiescence,  76. 

Race,  continuity  of  human,  67-68, 
243,  247;  influence  of  on  individual 
differences,  196-202. 

Rashdall,  446,  456. 

Reason,  and  religion,  307-22;  as  di- 
rector of  life,  58-59;  career  of,  275- 
78;  in  absolutistic  morality,  442. 
See  also  Reflection,  and  Thinking. 

Recreation,  70-71;  art  as,  72,  336; 
form  dependent  on  work  and  hab- 
its, 72. 

Reflection,  and  individual  differ- 
ences, 57,  394-95;  and  morality, 
424-34;  creates  moral  standards, 
428-30,  438-39;  in  art,  64-66;  in 
science,  60-64;  inadequacy  of  in 
morals,  434-38;  limited  by  in- 
stinct and  habit,  65-58;  modifier 
of  instinct  and  habit,  52-55 ;  proc- 
ess of,  47-52,  219;  value  of  for  so- 
ciety, 37,  53,  58-60,  430,  434.  See 
also  Learning,  Scientific  method, 
and  Thinking. 

Reflex,  2,  67,  214. 

Relativistic  morality,  443-45. 

Religion,  and  history,  314;  and  sci- 
ence, 311-22;  experiences  giving 
rise  to  expression  of,  294-307;  in- 
stitutionalized, 322-28;  offers  sol- 
ace, 287-94,  328-30;  realization  of 
ideals  in,  292-93;  primitive,  295- 
98,  300-01,  305,  307;  rationaliza- 
tion of  personal,  307-22. 

Remorse  and  religion,  302. 

Repentance,  303-04. 

Repetition  in  habit  formation,  29-31. 

Repression  of  instincts,  19-26. 

Ribot,  91,  284. 

Robinson,  James  Harvey,  266,  266. 

Robinson,  Edwin  Arlington,  133. 

Roosevelt,  115,  170. 

Ross,  86,  121. 

Russell,  Bertrand,  65,  74,  108,  111, 
127,  128,  136,  169,  175,  286,  299, 
337,  354,  373,  374,  437. 

Sabatier,  299. 
Sacrifice,  297-99. 


Santayana,  65,  130,  174,  250,  335, 
338,  345.  347,  355,  430,  456. 

Schopenhauer,  95,  344. 

Science,  aesthetic  aspect  of,  63;  and 
common  sense,  381-87;  and  prog- 
ress, xi-xiii,  379,  407-10;  and  re- 
ligion, 311-22;  as  explanation  of 
natural  phenomena,  369-75,  clas- 
sification in,  242,  397-98;  defini- 
tion of,  368;  experimentation  in, 
399-401;  imagination  in,  73-75, 
339-41,  375;  innovation  in,  105; 
observation  in,  395-97,  402-05; 
practical,  63-64,  377-81;  primi- 
tive, 61-62;  pure,  373-81,  410;  so- 
cial, 405-07. 

Scientific  inquiry,  curiosity  and,  62, 
369,  387-89;  law,  61,  371;  method, 
58,  61-62,  381-402. 

Self-assertion,  167-69;  consciousness 
of  the,  12-13,  161-64;  develop- 
ment of,  139,  148-51,  157-59;  dis- 
play, 165;  preservation,  4,  67; 
sufficiency,  166;  surrender,  116, 
172-73,  293-94;  satisfaction  and 
dissatisfaction,  159-61;  the  di- 
vided, 154-55;  the  negative,  171- 
73;  the  permanent,  151-52,  156- 
59;  the  social,  149-51,  157;  types 
of  the,  164-78. 

Sense  satisfaction  basis  of  aesthetic 
experience,  345-46. 

Sex,  and  creative  activity,  69;  and 
racial  continuity,  243;  influence  of 
on  individual  differences,  190-95; 
instinct  of,  67-69. 

Shakespeare,  355. 

Shelley,  171,  174,  251,  282,  289,  362, 
365. 

Sidgwick,  441,  448. 

Smith,  Adam,  111. 

Social  activity,  108-09;  being,  man 
as  a,  81-83;  consequences  of  fear, 
126-28;  of  leadership,  121-22;  of 
opposition  to  public  opinion,  103; 
of  pity,  124-25;  of  submission,  118- 
19;  inertia,  37,  127,  421;  institu- 
tion, the  church  as  a,  322-28;  mo- 
tive, 108-09;  sciences,  405-07; 
self,  149-51,  157;  solidarity,  86-87, 
181;  standards  of  conduct,  103-07; 
value  of  consciousness  of  self,  13' 
of  custom,  419-20,  429;  of  individ- 
uality in  opinion,  144-47;  of  praise 


INDEX 


467 


and  blame,  97,  101-07;  416;  of  pro- 
longed period  of  infancy,  12;  of 
pugnacity,  114-15;  of  reflection, 
37,  63,  59-60,  430,  434. 

Socialism,  142. 

Society,  and  education,  107-08,  158- 
59,  210-13;  and  individual  happi- 
ness, 25-26,  185;  and  law,  22,  106; 
based  on  instinct  of  gregarious- 
ness,  81-87;  conflict  of  interests  in, 
413-14;  control  of  instincts  in,  20- 
26,  413-14. 

Socrates,  103,  151,  163,  241,  366,  425, 
457. 

Solitude,  138. 

Sorel,  Georges,  133. 

Specificity  of  instincte,  3;  of  habits, 
38-40. 

Speech  (see  also  Language) ;  freedom 
of,  142-47. 

Standards,  aesthetic,  349;  a  priori, 
443;  experimental,  447-48,  453; 
ideal,  151,  433-34;  language,  231- 
33;  moral,  100-01,  419-20,  424, 
428-30,  450,  452;  social,  103-05. 

Statistics,  405-07. 

Stirner,  Max,  169,  427. 

Stork,  Charhs  Wharton,  171. 

Submissive  instinct,  116-19. 

Suggestion,  in  thinking,  391,  394-97. 

Sutherland,  111. 

Swinburne,  237,  277,  285. 

Sympathy,  90-96,  158-59. 

Tabu,  415. 

Tarde,  91,  111. 

Taylor,  Henry  Osborn,  313-14,  329, 
364. 

Teleology  in  morals,  443-45. 

Tender  emotion,  123-25. 

Tennyson,  308,  350. 

Theology,  307-22. 

Theory,  inadequacy  of  in  morals, 
434-38. 

Thilly,  312. 

Thinking,  common  sense  rs.  scientific, 
381-87;  influence  of  habit  on,  55- 
58;  analyzes  experience,  219;  be- 
gins with  a  problem,  60,  389-94. 


See  alto  Reflection;  and  Scientific 

method. 

Thompson,  Sylvanus  P.,  375. 
Thomson,  376,  380. 
Thorndike,  Edward  L.,  3,  8,  19,  78; 

79,  91,  97.  98,  116,  125,  187,  189. 

191,  192,  193,  194,  196,  203,  213. 
Thought,     and     language,    218-21; 

originality  in,  56-67. 
Tolstoy,  100,  360,  361,  449. 
Tools,  man  only  maker  and  user  of, 

15. 

Tradition.     See  Custom. 
Trial-and-error,  learning,  7,  48,  62, 

216;  reflection  as  mental,  49. 
Trotter,   85,   90,   117,   167-68,   173, 

434,  451. 
Tufts,  417,  433. 
Tylor,  Edward  B.,  269. 
Tyndall,  340. 
Types  of  self,  164-78;  of  intelligence, 

187-88. 

Utilitarianism,  439,  445-48. 

Values,  esthetic,  351-66;  ideal,  431; 

moral,  353,  419,  425,  432,  442. 
Veblen,  104,  141,  182. 
Verification  in  scientific  procedure, 

393-94. 

Wallas,  Graham,  35-36,  99,  139,  239, 

412,  452. 
War,  and  acquisitive  instinct,  140- 

41;  and  hate,  135;  and  pugnacity, 

113-14. 

Ward,  Lester,  141. 
Watson,  4,  7,  15,  215. 
Wharton,  Edith,  84. 
Wilde,  Oscar,  270,  338. 
Will,  153. 

Wilson,  Woodrow,  182. 
Wolff,  Christian,  315. 
Woodbridge,  265. 
Woodworth,  19,  30,  42,  81-82,  108, 

109,  197. 

Wordsworth,  281,  344. 
Work  determines  form  of  recreation, 

71-72. 


DATE 


IMP 


1     •'  *"  •*•  ""W  f  • . 

~l  •'  -   •»      • '  »Jr.  •       "i  * 


